


City of Angels

by JeanValJean



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin
Genre: ...I apologise in advance, Anxiety, Depression, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Multi, Prostitution, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Third P.O.V, the warnings are (unfortunately for you) there for many reasons, you see all of those ships in the tags? don't get your hopes up please
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanValJean/pseuds/JeanValJean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many of those who are not long for this world, are made that way by their own hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Down on Hollywood Boulevard

**Author's Note:**

> A story about decisions; what we've done, what we're doing, and what we're going to do. And no matter how much we grow, the universe has planned out our entire life, from the very beginning, to the very end.

_When your values are clear to you, making decisions becomes easier._ \- **Roy E. Disney**

 

Amongst the shimmering streets of rain-soaked Hollywood, the late night traffic begins to die down, and the night crowd is drawn into local nightclubs and brothels adorning the boulevard. An old man coughs, spluttering tar from the depths of his lungs, before indulging in another drag of his cigarette. He zips his fly up the rest of the way, places the cigarette between his teeth, and rummages through his wallet to throw a torn twenty dollar bill into the alleyway he quickly leaves behind him. 

He makes tracks at a fast pace, unaware of the bleak tawny eyes that watch him leave without so much as a verbalised thank you. A frail hand reaches out to take the note between its slender fingers, and a young man's thin, sharp face is illuminated by the neon lights of the bar beside the alleyway. He's shivering, clothed only by a pair of cargo pants that are two whole sizes smaller than him, borrowed from a friend, and a thin jacket. He'd sold off his warmest jacket barely a week ago to repay a debt he owed to an old friend, one he thought would have at least offered him more than a judgemental stare and a frantic goodbye.

He sighs, once again wondering why he's living the way he is. _At least he isn't selling his body completely,_ is how he often concludes his thoughts. _Who_ _would be stable enough to endure that and keep on living?_ For someone without any qualifications, who'd never been allowed the privilege of going to school past eighth grade, there's only so many ways to earn the money he needs to.

The young man waits another couple of minutes, sitting on the steps outside the bar and counting the money in his battered wallet. In one night alone, he's earned $45, and all he has to show for it are bruised, swollen lips and a bloody nose.

He'll probably need to buy cough drops tomorrow, once the stores open. He can't spend another week with a sore throat;  _the nurse would kill him._

He keeps his wallet in his hands, clinging onto the hungry thing for dear life. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and sets a fast pace towards Maria Youth Hostel, only three blocks away, leaving the muffled music and laughter from the bar behind him. It's a numb feeling to walk alone in the bitter cold, knowing that there are people sitting in those bars surrounded by the warmth of heaters and friends. Maybe even the warmth of their own hearts, something that the young man has never quite felt.

He's unstable on his feet, knees trembling from being knelt on for so long. His thighs quiver and his face feels hot, and the ticking of his internal clock courses dread through his fragile body. Sirens echo in the distance, a foreboding sound that often has him wondering, _When are those sirens coming for me?_ He scuffs his feet along the steps leading to the front door of a large brick building and takes a deep breath, huffing out a warm breath into the chilly evening air. Knocking three times, he awaits an answer, bracing himself for another night of self-loathing. A few younger kids scream from inside the building, some laugh, a handful cry. Nanaba's loud, tired voice calls out to Mina, who opens the door not a minute later.

He has to remind himself again;  _it's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault._ But words only go so far when the wounds are deeper than they'll ever reach.

"Jean, welcome back," She says happily, moving aside for Jean to come in. The young dark-haired girl looks surprised to see Jean back so late, often wondering to herself if he was ever going to come home at all. But, she pushes those thoughts aside and says, "We're just about to put a load of washing on, do you have anything?"

 _My mouth, my jeans, my soul_. Jean shakes his head, wiping his feet on the doormat. "No, thanks."

He detours through the entrance hall and drops two twenty dollar bills into Nanaba's lap. She's sitting by the wood fire, nursing a young child to sleep. As he goes to leave, she tugs his sleeve. He doesn't look at her though. He can't. "Don't work yourself too hard, alright?" She says kindly. He takes his sleeve out of her grip and nods with a hum, before shuffling back down the hallway and up the staircase, running his hands along railing to feel the smooth surface of freshly polished wood.

Three doors down to the left, he knocks twice, and enters the room. The bathroom light is on, and the window is wide open; moths scatter the walls of the room, fluttering around the light in desperation to stay warm. His roommates bedside lamp is switched on, attracting a few moths over there too, and a book is left open, upside down on his bed. Jean sighs audibly. What a mess. Sometimes he worried that Eren is in a worser place than he is, and that he doesn't even know it. 

The teenager in question throws the bedroom door open and shuts it loudly behind him. His surprise is evident, eyebrows shooting up as he and Jean make lengthy eye contact. His crestfallen expression changes upon seeing Jean, and he swallows. "I didn't think you were back yet," Eren remarks, taking in Jean's pitiful appearance.

Jean shrugs. "I just got here. I thought you were still out working."

Eren shakes his head, his disheveled brown hair still damp from a probable forecasted shower. "I was. I got back around five, then I had to leave again for a few more clients..." Eren mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck cautiously. Jean nods and makes his way to his own bed, as Eren does, trying to ignore the hickeys and red marks on Eren's neck, and the faded specks of blood adorning his jeans and pale shirt.

Their single beds are on either side of the window, which overlooks the park from the third storey, and their desk is on the other side of the room in the corner. A single bedside table is placed between their beds, and two mismatched lamps are on their respective sides. They share a built-in robe, often wearing each others' clothing, and their bedroom light hasn't worked since the beginning of the year.

It's quaint, and by far the room most in need of repair, but neither of them seem to mind it too much. After all, it's better than sharing a room with four or five other strangers.

They don't often use their entire room, rather sticking to one bed or the other, and their desk has been unused since the first time Jean arrived. He steps closer to his bed, weighing up in his mind whether he should shower now or in the morning, but Eren's shuffling tells him that there's something he needs to take care of, that is more important than a shower.

"Hey Jean," Eren starts, leaning up against the wall on his bed. "Can I ask you a question?" Jean nods, as Eren clears his throat, nervously cracking his fingers. He seems to mull over his own question, visibly thinking hard about what he's going to say. Eren takes a deep breath and looks into Jean's eyes. "Do you pity me?"

Jean's taken aback by the question, but doesn't make it known. "What do you mean?" He asks.

Eren's voice grows desperate. "Do I make you want to vomit with pity? Would you be disgusted if you and I had to walk along the same sidewalk? Am I the type of person you see on the streets - the ones covered in semen and blood and bruises - that make you want to throw up your lunch, just by looking at them?"

"Not at all," Jean says. He knew he had seen an absence of light in Eren's eyes the moment he'd walked in. He wished Eren would just be honest with him, without the guessing games. "Has something happened?"

He's tired of the guessing games.

Eren shrugs, looking around the room for any distraction he could find. "It's just something someone said," He mumbles, crossing his legs. "It's nothing, really, I just..."

Jean makes his way over to Eren's bed and sits beside him, starting to place his hand on Eren's knee. He quickly reconsiders the gesture, instead resting his hand on his own thigh. Jean takes a deep breath. "Do you need to talk about it?"

Eren raises and lowers his eyebrows, as the cogs in his mind visibly turn as he tries to come up with the words. "I'm not sure how," Eren sighs, looking at the floor.

Jean nods, understanding. Eren's always been like this, reconsidering everything he says. He knows the internal struggles that Eren suffers from. Where he wants to say something, but will say something else. Or when he struggles with the morality of a situation, denying himself of his own thoughts and feelings, suffering for the sake of others. Eren wraps his arms around Jean's chest, his legs around his waist, and nuzzles his face into Jean's neck. Jean pats his head, tussling pieces of Eren's hair and rubbing circles on his back. "However you want. Even if I don't understand, it might make you feel better to let it out however you can." He tries to hide how his hands stutter over the fabric of Eren's shirt, or how his lip quivers when he feels too close. He's always felt something for Eren, but he's never felt enough to actually act on it.

He also knows that, although Eren loves physical contact, he has to be wary of how and when he touches him. Eren can be as unpredictable as a wild dog, emotion wise.

"Don't say that," Eren sniffs. "I need to learn how to let it out this way. I already know the other ways..."

Jeans heart sinks momentarily, his breath getting caught in his throat before he can clear it. "I'm sorry, take your time," Jean whispers. "Of course, I'm not forcing you to say anything at all. It just might..."  _Say it_. "It could possibly..."  _Help_. _It could help_. "You know..."

Eren sighs, then swallows, averting his gaze from Jean's. "My last client- he got pretty rough with me. He was worried that his wife would find out, and I reassured him she wouldn't, and then he started shoving me around. He c-completely went against my rules, and I tried to shout out for help, but the group of guys who saw us only laughed."

His voice wavers, and he's sinking further and further into Jean's chest. "He didn't even pay me. He left me in the corner of that stingy club, with cum all over my clothes and in my hair, and b-blood everywhere. When I left I- I passed those guys, and one of them must have recognised me," Eren stops, pausing to think about what he's saying, attempting to break himself out of the oncoming hysteria. "He said... he said he pitied the fact that I existed, and told me he wanted to vomit at the thought of selling his body just to earn cash for d-drug money."

Jean clenches his fist, gritting his teeth. "What did he look like?" He asks, trying not to grind his teeth. _How dare that bastard ever even insinuate something like that? He doesn't even know Eren, and he thinks that he can go around sprouting bullshit?_

Eren shrugs. "Dark hair, a mushroom cut... he looked like he had a giant stick up his arse, too." After a moments thought, Eren smiled slightly, teeth only just visible. "He looked like a penis."

Jean smiles, but he knows how Eren covers up his emotions with humour. They've come this far already, there's no way he's letting this go off topic. "People who have no humanity have no right to judge people who actually work to earn money," Jean says, inwardly seething at how insensitive people can be. Although he's trying to consult Eren, he knows his last words were really speaking to his sub-conscience too.

Jean resumes patting Eren's head, drawing him in closer. Eren sighs shakily, planting a light kiss on Jean's clavicle. " _Mm_ ," He nearly moans, slightly moving his head away from Eren's lips.

"Do you need to see a nurse?" Jean asks, attempting to ignore Eren's ministrations. He'd seen the marks on Eren's back earlier, and he'd seen plenty on him before. He's obviously hiding more than he's showing.

"No, I'm fine. I'm not hurt too badly. Can you stay with me tonight, though?" He asks, a pleading look in his eyes. Eren starts to run circles on Jean's thighs, lightly with the very tips of his fingers, causing the latter to shudder.

"This is my room too," Jean says, with a forced, constipated-looking grin. "I have to stay with you. I can't just leave."

Eren rolls his eyes. "I mean with me, in my bed." The circles on Jean's thighs don't stop, and Eren's breathing gets heavier, intentionally so, leaning closer into Jean's chest. Jean knows this is just how Eren gets after rough encounters with his customers. He's always been physically affectionate, but he's only like this when he wants to feel loved, not used - no matter how rough it could get.

Jean pushes that thought to the back of his mind.

He sighs, returning Eren's clavicle kiss to the brunette's neck. "Fine. But I'm only sleeping. No funny business." He wants funny business, especially with Eren, but he knows it would be damaging for both of them, given Eren's current emotional state.

Not that Jean is in any greater state of mind either, but this is about Eren, not him.

Eren chuckles faintly, knowing he'd tried for naught to get Jean to sleep with him. He knew it was a far cry for help, knowing full well that Jean wouldn't let him do anything to him, nor reciprocate it. Yet, he still questions with a pressing expression. "Nothing? At all?"

Jean shakes his head lightly. "I'm really not in the mood tonight."

Eren nods. "Okay. I'm just gonna get completely naked then. Maybe jerk off beside you, hold your hand, moan your name..." Eren begins to fake a series of moans and whines, huffing Jean's name and looking him straight in the eyes.

Jean swallows thickly, stomach contorting with nerves at just how far Eren is willing to take this little game. God how he wishes he could make him moan like that for real...

"Okay," Jean says, moving over to their shared wardrobe and rummaging through a drawer. "It's been a tiring day, relieve your stresses however you want to."

Eren starts to take off his shirt, clearly a little annoyed at Jean's lack of reaction. Jean changes into his pyjamas with far more decency than the tanned brunette, barely looking over his shoulder to glance at Eren's backside before he climbs beneath the covers.

"Has something happened that you wanna talk about?" Eren asks, winking when he catches Jean's gaze. "Or do you just always looked partially uncomfortable and partially turned on?"

Jean lifts his shirt over his head, hiding his flushing face, replacing it with a loose fitting grey tee. "It's nothing that really needs to be talked about. It was just a day. Thanks, though."

Eren nods. "Alright, but I'm always here to listen if you ever need me to. Okay?"

"Yeah. I know."

Eren climbs into his own bed, completely naked, and Jean soon follows in his grey tee and batman boxers. Neither of them are uncomfortable with each other, even if one of them is sleeping commando and doing nothing to hide the fact that he is intentionally rubbing himself on the other. Jean's used to it though, and knows exactly how to handle it. Do nothing.

He also knows that the minute he starts to feel uncomfortable, all he needs to do is say something, and Eren won't do it again. Consent, as Jean came to find out, is something Eren thinks extremely highly of. He doesn't mess around with anyone, in any context, without consent - that one word is his entire religion. Jean didn't think this when they first met, what with the way he watched Eren parade around half naked and flirt with anything that had heartbeat. At first, the idea of being Eren's roommate was like being condemned to death. But as time went on, the two of them became aware that they weren't as different from each other as they'd originally thought.

And, Eren made Jean feel more comfortable in his own skin, purely by being himself. Jean supposes that's why he likes him so much.

It started out as a crush, but Jean has known from the beginning that he and Eren are nothing more than friends with occasional, situational, one-sided benefits. It wouldn't work anyway, Jean tells himself. When they both work under the prostitution umbrella, there's no way they are up to being together like that at the end of a long days work. Jean has never denied Eren the luxury of cuddling him after a long days work, though. Nor has he ever mentioned the fact that he knows Eren cries into his chest when they cuddle, trying to disguise his sniffling and stuttering chokes as 'bad hay fever,' even in early winter.

He values Eren's friendship, even if it starts and ends at only that. Who is he to take someone so kind-hearted and amazing for granted? He doesn't want to loose Eren's company. He's the first person he hasn't driven away.

After switching off the bedside lamp, he takes Eren's hand in his and presses a light kiss on the back. He swirls his thumb around Eren's knuckles, and wraps his other hand tightly around him. Safe and secure is how Eren likes to feel, though he'd never let on to that fact verbally, and Jean likes to make him feel that way.  
Eren works day in and day out feeling like a throwaway object. He gets used once or twice, sometimes four times, and then he's forgotten about - until someone else comes along demanding quick and easy release. He never feels anything worth feeling; his simple task is to make others feel good, and to completely forget that his own feelings are worth taking care of.

With one, evenly paced sigh, Eren begins to sniffle, and Jean knows that it's going to be another long night ahead of them both. And Jean awaits the empty feeling that will come with the sunrise over Hollywood Boulevard.

 

* * *

 

The hallway outside of their bedroom is lively, to say the least. Youths from all over Trost laugh and shout at each other down the corridor, wearing off the truly peaceful feelings of sleep from the two-toned teenager. And as predicted, he wakes up alone.

Jean sighs, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and scratching at his messed hair. He yawns silently, stretching as he stands to his feet and shuffles across the room to the small bathroom.

The hostel has two main bathrooms; one for boys, and one for girls. However, some of the larger rooms have their own toilet and sink facility, which Jean and Eren both appreciate. Of course, they have to shower in the main bathroom, but they can crap in peace. Jean doesn't mind the shared facilities too much, paying mind to his own business more so than anyone else's.

However, Eren is a different story. He claims to not be able to crap unless he has complete silence, and something to occupy his thoughts, be that a book or a phone, it didn't matter. Jean thinks he's ridiculous, but it always manages to get a smile out of him when Eren comes out of the toilet wearing an expression of pure bliss.

Jean finishes up in the bathroom, then makes his way down to the large kitchen to help himself to some breakfast. Unfortunately for him, the majority of the hostel are early risers, so it isn't too often he gets a chance to eat the food that some of them bring back from McDonald's or 7-11. In the end, breakfast is breakfast, so he'll take what he can get from the kitchen - even if it means paying a little extra.

Maria Youth Hostel houses over 1,200 youths, under the age of 25. Most of them are in their late teens, who have either been kicked out of home for one reason or another, or are staying at the hostel to get back on their feet from past addictions etcetera. Jean's been here since he was thirteen. Now being twenty, he knows the ropes like the back of his hand. The only meal the hostel provides is on Christmas Day, but there's always food and water available from the kitchen, even if it does add a little extra to the fortnightly rent payments.

It's all situational to Jean, but in his mind, anything is better than living on the streets. Of course, Nanaba makes sure that the more permanent guests are looked after properly, and are receiving the best treatment they can, but that's about all she can do. She bought Maria Estate off of the previous owners after the woman's husband had a heart attack. Originally, it was an orphanage, but once he had died and they couldn't afford to pay the mortgage, it was shut down. With the money Nanaba inherited from her parents, she payed off all the debts owing on the place. By turning it into a youth hostel, she was soothing a part of her childhood that no one but those closest to her knew. Her past self would've been grateful for the existence of such a place, and as such, she did her best to ensure that everyone who stayed there was as happy as they could be.

Jean pours himself the leftovers from a cereal box, opting to eat it without milk. He wasn't sure when the last time they'd bought new milk was, so he didn't want to risk any unwanted illness. He didn't have any form of health care, besides what they offered at Maria, so he didn't want to go getting himself gravely ill without being able to pay for it.

Unlike Eren, who sometimes sees his relatives, who Jean knows nothing about, besides the fact that Eren despises them, Jean doesn't have that luxury. His parents abandoned him years ago, and he hadn't heard anything since. Did he really care? Of course. Why have a kid if you're just going to palm them off on the streets when they get too hard to handle?

Although it was almost seven years ago, he remembers that day like it was yesterday. And he dwells on it like it defines his entire being.

He'd been crying after a hard day at school. He was being bullied, but his parents were too busy with meetings and themselves to bother doing anything about it. His mother was nearly never home, always out on business trips and such, and when she was home, she was too exhausted to do anything. His father worked late most nights, but he tried his best to make sure Jean felt that he was being looked after. He didn't succeed, as he only ever brought home take-out, which doubled Jean's already large size and increased the bullying.

That day, all he wanted was to talk about what was happening at school. He wanted to tell even just one of his parents that he didn't like being at school, because the kids were mean to him and none of the teachers liked him because he struggled with math and the others didn't. And where did talking about his feeling land him? On the side of the street, in the pouring rain, in the middle of the city.

The people from South Trost Fostering Service took him in and sent him off with a family far worse than his own. They treated him like a slave, and when he didn't do as good of a job as they'd hope, he was beaten for it. Treated like a dog, he left with what little he'd been given, and didn't turn back. He was _thirteen_. He walked around in the pouring rain in the middle of the night, at thirteen years of age. If it weren't for Eren, who took him off of the street before he was nearly hit by a car, he doesn't know where he'd be. _Dead_ , perhaps. Or maybe back with that family.

He wasn't sure which would be worse.

He owed a lot to Eren Jaeger. Both his mental and physical health became Eren's own problems, and he'd helped him through loosing weight and lifting his spirits. Jean never told Eren that he lied about how he felt, and to this day, he still hasn't. So long as Eren thinks he's okay, then he won't have to worry about him, and then nothing really needs to change. Besides, Jean thinks that Eren should focus more on his own mental and physical health than others, considering how he's been these past few months.

Whilst Jean found easy money in backstreet blowjobs, Eren had been selling his body for a number of things since he was twelve. _That had to do something to his mental state,_ Jean often wondered. _There's no way someone can just walk away from being used like that without feeling anything._ And it's true. While Jean could hide his feelings with ease, Eren had difficulty. He'd hold out for a while, but he always cracked. Jean hated it when he saw Eren like that. It reminded him of how he felt on the inside, and seeing Eren in that much pain caused him pain, because someone like Eren didn't deserve to feel like that. Eren didn't realise his own self worth, which Jean was guilty of too, but Eren was far more deserving of.

Jean barely managed to eat half of his cereal, his thoughts clouding his head without too much coaxing. One negative thought always led to another, and then he was stuck back in that deep, dark hole in his mind that he never could get out of. He'd closed the lid on that hole a while ago, afraid that if any sunlight came through, things might look up. When things are looking up, there's always something that will pull you down when that uplifting feeling passes. Jean hated being disappointed, so he didn't make an effort to try too much in life. Nanaba sends him off with a cheerful smile and a wave as he leaves the hostel. Jean returns the wave, and turns left when he gets to the street, following the icy sidewalk towards the traffic lights.

It's a cool and eerily quiet morning, and Jean is amongst the people walking around at this time of day blowing warm air onto the freezing tips of his fingers. Although it's only Autumn, winter weather is drawing closer and closer by the minute. Jean has to earn money on non-working days to be able to afford a Christmas gift for Eren. And, if he's lucky, a winter coat for himself. So, he makes tracks towards Trost Central, where he knows customers the who will recognise him there.

He prays that they're in the mood today, because he needs to get the gift before his rent is due, otherwise Eren will never get one; he promised Eren he would get him something this year, even when Eren protested he didn't need anything.

Jean takes another left between Garrison Drive and St Maria, before he ends up at the corner of Trost Central; he's simply one amongst many who are all there to make money, willing to take any means necessary.

"Jean," a male voice quivers, approaching Jean from the shadowed side of an arcade. "You're here early."

Jean turns to face the person, hands deep within his pocket. He manages a small smile, hardly serious as he takes in the state of the honey-blonde haired teenager. Jean swallows, blinking at his appearance. "Armin..."

Armin Arlert is seventeen years old, and stands at roughly 164cm. For someone who used to be quite healthy, he's since become stick thin. His skinny jeans noticeably hang off of his hips, and he's practically engulfed by a white-knit sweater. He's shaking, pale and clammy; his once hidden fragility shows now, and it makes Jean's shrivelled heart ache.

"How are you?" Armin asks, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, drawing in a quick breath. He's always quick to change the subject from himself, or prevent himself from being the centre of conversation. This isn't the first time Jean has noticed that.

Compared to Armin, he's the epitome of health. He's only three years younger than Jean, but he shouldn't look the way he does. _He should be in school, he should be hanging out with friends, he should be getting so drunk at a party that the hangover he'll wake up with is_ worth _the pain_.

Jean nods slowly. "Fine, I guess. Uh- how are... how are you?"

Armin chuckles, far more perceptive that Jean thinks he is, and gives a small shrug. "Fine, I guess."

The silence is awkward between them, what with Jean's lack of social grace and Armin's fragile mind. He's never been quite sure what to say to Armin, but he always wants to say something. _He's seventeen for Christ sake, he shouldn't be doing what he does just to get by._

"So," Armin starts, stepping ever-so-slightly towards Jean. "Any plans for Christmas?"

Jean shakes his head. "Not really. Eren will probably get into it, but I usually just enjoy others enjoying themselves."

"You talk about this Eren a lot, but I've never actually met him," Armin smiles. "You should introduce us all sometime. We could have coffee or something."

Jean knows Eren would like Armin. And he knows Armin would like Eren, too. But... he's selfish, and if he introduced them and they hung out more with each other than they did with him, he'd get bad again. He didn't think he could stand to get bad again, no matter how much he missed its perks.  _But... Eren was so good for him. Maybe he could help Armin, too? He needs it. It's clear that he needs something other than what he's getting. Where does he even live? Jean's never seen him at the hostel, and surely Armin's family wouldn't let him sell his body like he does._

"Uh... I'm sure we could work something out," Jean nods, smiling weakly.

Armin gives Jean a parting hug, and he tries to ignore the way Armin clings on for just a moment too long. Armin's about to take the train to the red light district, and he's always in a bad state afterwards, so Jean offers as much as he can to help Armin through it. With both himself and Eren in the same line of work as Armin, he knows exactly how it feels to be apprehensive before getting into business.

Jean's gut churns sickeningly as he gives Armin one last wave as he boards the train. They both know that every time they part could be the last, especially in this side of Trost. 

Occupants of Trost aren't the nicest of people to start with, but as soon as they have someone at their mercy, they're relentless. Armin usually gives lap dances in a fairly safe environment, a strip club called the Conquered Walls, but there have been more than a few rule breakers who have hurt him. Jean would kill them if he could get his hands on them. Really, he would. What some of those types of people have done to Eren, done to Armin, done to himself - there are no words to describe the fury that sparks deep within him.

Muggy, humid weather begins to set in, drawing Jean further into the shopping complex. Trost Central is an outside mall, complete with food stands, clothing stores, grocery stores, bars, and the strip club. I _t's a pity Armin isn't working there today_ , Jean thinks. At least then he wouldn't have to worry as much as opposed to when he goes out to Rosewall City. When he has a little extra to spare, Jean will sit down for a cup of coffee at Galleria on Sina, a small coffee and sweet shop adorned with ferns and mahogany dining sets. It's his favourite place in the whole of Trost, but today he's not here for a nice time.

Jean strays away to the shadows of the mall, finding the path that leads down to Trost's Little Italy. He finds a secure back-alley spot to sit in until the day crowd begin to bar-hop. The hustle and bustle of the street can also create havoc for his line of work, havoc which he doesn't need, and he doesn't want anyone he might have known long ago to see him in his current state.

_What would his parents think, if they ever saw him? Would they even know him?_

Jean bets they wouldn't, and sits on the stairs in the alley behind the Conqured Walls. He's got plenty of customers from there before, and he knows that a regular group will be leaving around 12:30pm. Surely one of them is looking for a good time... he's done these back-alley blowjobs for over five years, and this place has never failed him before.

 

* * *

1pm soon rolls around, yet still, no customers. Jean's taken to standing not-so-subtly on the corner of the alley, trying to push the judgemental stares of the public into the back of his mind. These pressing hours did give Jean time to seek out a present for Eren, though. He could see it from where he was standing; a long, brown jacket. It would only last him for the winter months, but Eren was nearly always cold. He'd complained about needing more clothes for over a year now, but his own addictions got in the way of him ever being allowed to have control of his money. Nanaba keeps his cash stored away somewhere in the hostel, and only ever gives him just enough for whatever it is he tells her he needs. More often that not, Nanaba goes and uses Eren's money to buy his things, not quite trusting him.

He knew how Eren felt about not being trusted. He also knew that, although the coat seems to be around $300, Eren would smile that bright smile Jean hasn't seen for years - the one he loves so dearly. But he would he manage to save $300? A coat like that wouldn't stay in stores for the amount of time it would take him to save. How would he pull it off? He _has_ to get that coat for Eren. He just has to.

"Ahem." A deep voice clears its throat from behind Jean, and he turns to face a rather tall and thick man wearing a heavy jacket. "You the scout?"

Jean swallows, revelling in the untouched, pure feeling within his gullet for as long as it will last. He hadn't heard that nickname in a long time. It's venomous sound spreads dread through his mind, but he ignores the way his stomach twists, despite its incessant squeezing. "Yeah, I am."

The man's smile quickly turns dark, and he edges closer to Jean. "How's about a little fun then? Boys and I just had a few next door, 'nd I'm feelin' a bit nasty. Wanna help a fella out, pretty boy?"

Jean grimaces. "It's $15. Quicker you come, less you have to pay." He states his terrible slogan with a bitter tongue, hating the way the words he says sound so dirty from between his lips. _He's a common street whore, how can he feel the way he does_? He's been doing this for years, he thought he'd be used to it by now.

The man's eyes light up as he steps closer, our stretching his arms towards Jean. "Fifteen for a backyard fuck? You're a fuckin' miracle worker! Christ, you cheeky lil fucker-"

Jean shakes his head frantically, feeling closed in as the man towers over his trapped figure. "I-I'm sorry, I'm not a pros- I don't do the sex thing. Blowjobs only." He's stuck between the hard chest of the stranger and the damp brick wall of the alley. _Where would he go?_ Surely the man will understand though, he's never promoted anything but blowjobs, anyway.

The stranger looms over him and places a tight grip on Jean's arse, squeezing and caressing circles over his cheeks. He blows hot air down Jean's neck, mouthing wetly down to his clavicle. "Mm sweet thing, you're not gonna get off that easy..."

Jean's voice is weak, and his heart thunders against his chest. "I only do blowjobs. There's a place just down a few streets where y-you can-"

"Don't want no place, just want here and now. Want you." The man licks a warm stripe up Jean's neck, making him shiver in response. He's by no means turned on, though. He's fucking terrified. "Mm you like that? You needy slut..."

Jean attempts to struggle away, but the man presses him up against the wall, pinning his arms high above his head and grinding down into him. "You ain't goin' no where baby, not today. You pull any shit and I'll have your arse hunted down by the Mafia, you got that? I'll kill you. Stay with me, sexy. I've got you, you've got me, that's all we need. Don't need no strangers getting involved in our affair, hm? Mm, you and me got a lot to do down here. How's a little twink like you gonna take a monster cock like this, huh?"

The stranger starts to unzip his pants, and Jean's struggling is no use. The man forces Jean to his knees, ignoring the sickening crack that comes from Jean's neck as he's pushed down. He knows that the woman he makes eye contact with out on the street see the situation, and nearly sobs as she walks away without a care in the world.

_He can't do this._

The man pushes his penis further towards Jean, gripping his hair with his free hand and stuffing his mouth without hesitation. "Suck it."

Jean can't scream out with his mouth full of cock, nor can he reach for his phone to dial the emergency services. The stranger removes himself from Jean's mouth and hoists him to his feet, starting to manoeuvre Jean's own pants down to his ankles, shoving his stomach against the wall. "Bite your tongue, slut," He chuckles.

Jean chokes back a scream, with one of the man's hands holding his mouth shut. He can feel the strangers cock pressing up against his dry hole, and tears roll down his face as he shivers. The stranger groans once more before moving his hips further towards Jean, but he falters, his grip releasing from Jean's mouth, as a deep and threatening voice rings out in the alley way.

"What the _fuck_ is going on here?"

The man steps away from Jean immediately, trying desperately to pull his pants up before the stranger can get involved. "I-It's not what it looks like, we were just-"

" _We_?" A male voice questions threateningly. "This didn't seem like a ' _we_ ' situation, it seemed like a you."

Jean's teary eyes can barely make out the broad figure standing at the back end of the alleyway. Whoever he is, he's wearing dark skinny jeans and a pale t-shirt, with a leather jacket thrown over the top. He has the slightest Italian accent, which makes Jean feel as though he'll pull a gun out any minute and start demanding money or cigarettes or something. Jean's stomach swells with emotion as his shaky hands start to pull up his own jeans.

"Give me your name," The guys asks sternly, walking towards Jean and the stranger with a menacing gate.

"F-Franz-"

The man smirks. "Hm. That's all I needed to hear. Get the fuck out of here, scum."

Franz runs faster than a greyhound, leaving Jean behind in the alleyway with yet another stranger. The young man approaches Jean's cowering figure, crouching down to be eye level with him. "Are you hurt?" He asks, giving Jean a once over.

Jean shakes his head, cowering slightly at the way this other man looms over him, similarly to the other man. Is he going to hurt me too? Jean's saliva catches in his throat, threatening to cause him to dry reach. "N-no..." He manages, pathetically.

"Here." The brunette offers his hand to Jean, who accepts it cautiously, being pulled to his feet. "We should go somewhere with more people. Can you walk?"

He doesn't want to go. _How can he trust this man?_ He trusted that other man too, he's trusted plenty of men before but...

"Yes."

Jean's saviour introduces himself as Marco, and takes him down to the 'Sunlight Square,' a small courtyard that features a large water fountain and a garden drenched in sunlight. On humid days like today, the cafe's around the place are full of people, so Marco suggests that it would be best to be amongst them for a little while. On the way, Marco asks Jean a number of questions. _Do you need medical attention? Do you know Franz? Are you hungry or thirsty? Is that your natural hair colour?_ He asks him every question in the book, besides the obvious _'why were you back there anyway_?' Jean's not sure whether Marco is just overly perceptive or dense, but he figures the first of the two options.

They sit at a deserted picnic table, just as another couple leave. "Do you want me to order you anything?" Marco asks, standing at the table. Jean's stomach flutters.

"I don't have any money on me."

Marco shakes his head with a small smile. "But would you like something? I'm offing to pay for whatever you want."

Jean's mind strays back to the coat, but he doesn't mention it. He has to be the one to buy Eren that coat. He's going to reach that goal, even if it's the only one he ever achieves in his miserable life. "A coffee, I guess..."

"One and two?" Marco asks.

Jean blinks in disbelief. "How did you...?"

Marco chuckles. "Good intuition. Are you alright to stay here on your own while I line up?"

Jean nods, and Marco quickly walks over to the cafe. It's a small lineup, and the order doesn't take too long, so he's back at Jean's side in less than seven minutes. "Here you are, one and two flat white."

Jean's almost amazed. "That's... very good intuition."

Marco actually winks at him. "I try my best."

Jean's mesmerised by Marco. Whether it's the way his face is almost perfect, or the accent that is the definition of sex, Jean doesn't know. Maybe it's only because he stopped him from being assaulted by a stranger, but for the moment, he doesn't care.  _Who just stands up for a stranger like that?_ Jean knows he wouldn't. He doesn't have a death wish quite as desperate as the one Marco clearly has. No one would practically offer their lives in a situation like that. _Maybe he's a martyr?_

The two drink their coffees in silence, and Jean notices his heart rate decrease as time passes by. Sunlight begins to fade, and Marco asks if Jean lives close-by. When Jean says 'no,' Marco nearly jumps at the opportunity to ask if he would like him to walk him home. "I wouldn't feel safe knowing you were out here on your own after what's just happened," Marco says, walking beside Jean down the busy street of Little Italy. "So please, if you don't mind, may I walk you home?"

Jean's torn. It wouldn't be good to have someone so self sacrificing to know that he lives in a youth hostel. But then again, he could say he's foreign, and then this won't be such a bad experience, right?

"O-okay but... I live at MYH," Jean says, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck.

"Maria?" Marco questions. "It's a lovely place. I'd be honoured to walk you back, I don't live too far from there."

Somehow, Jean feels like Marco is only saying that to be kind, but he doesn't decline his offer. He didn't ask why he was there, so why cause a fuss? The two of them walk side-by-side through the rapidly decreasing crowd, until they hit the train line, where everyone's seems to be nonexistent. There's always an hour or two that separates the day crowd from the night crowd, and Marco and Jean seem to have been caught up in it. There are barely any cars on the road as they cross the crossing, mentally preparing themselves for the long stretch of townhouses that will lead them to the doors of Maria Youth Hostel. Jean's nearly surprised that Marco knows where to go, but he did call it a lovely place. Jean wonders if Marco had lives there at some stage, or if he has family living there. _He's Italian, obviously, maybe they're refugees or something?_

As they reach the front porch of Maria, Marco takes Jean's hand in his, seemingly unaware of the way Jean flinches at his touch. "Be careful out here, okay?" Marco says, taking one step down further from Jean. "Trost is an unforgiving place... Ciao, Jean."

Marco leaves him with a final wave, disappearing down the street without looking back once. Jean stands dumbfounded on the front steps of Maria, the various sounds of children and teenagers alike fading into the background, as Marco's parting words fill the forefront of his mind.

"Bye, Marco..."

 

* * *

 

Jean lays atop his unmade bed, staring at the ceiling. He'd watched the streets turn dark outside, flickering shadows from the streetlights dancing on the off-white walls of the room. He sighs audibly, hearing a child start to scream and cry down the hallway.  _Trost is an unforgiving place..._ What is that supposed to mean?

Eren enters the room with two large brown bags, and Jean's interest is peaked when he inhales the deep-fried scent of KFC. "Bought food," Eren announces over a mouthful of fries.

Jean smiles slightly. "For me, too? Or do I have to watch you eat again?"

Eren rolls his eyes, hauling himself onto Jean's bed and pouring the contents of the bag onto Jean's duvet, fries and all. "For you too, idiot. I told you I wouldn't do that again, I was just pissed at you."

Jean's smile widens, and he reaches for a burger without further delay. "How was your day?" He asks, as Eren slurps at his 7-Up.

Eren shrugs. "Fine, a bit slow to be honest. You?"

Jean's mouth contorts into a tiny smile, and now Eren's interest is peaked. "It... it was fine."

"Just fine?" Eren questions. "That looks like a more than fine smile to me. Were they cute? Jean, you know you can't fall in love with customers-"

Jean shakes his head softly. "He wasn't a customer. Just a.. a stranger."

Eren sighs. "A stranger, huh? So many possibilities, and you fall for a stranger?" He asks, unwrapping his burger. "Strangers are so unpredictable... you know as soon as they find out what you do for a living, they'll be right on the bandwagon, right? They won't be a stranger anymore, they'll be a customer. Jean, you think you've got your heart set on someone, and then they break it into little pieces. Strangers are the worst."

And indeed they were.

Whilst Jean and Eren eat their meal on Jean's bed, turning to the newest topic of, 'have you seen Nanaba's new hair?' Somewhere, a gun shot rings out amongst a group of young people, and the wounded are forced to flea without a glance towards their fatally wounded friends.

_It's the strangers that really are the worst._


	2. Eren, Pt. I

“ _There are two questions a man must ask himself: The first is 'Where am I going?' and the second is 'Who will go with me?' If you ever get these questions in the wrong order you are in trouble.”_ ― **Sam Keen, Fire in the Belly: On Being a Man**

 

Early morning light filters through ripped shades, casting shadows upon the off-white walls of the cold, dark bedroom. Soft breathing accompanies the silent sobbing of a lonely brunette, awake after little more than two hours sleep.

Eren sits on the edge of his bed, giving Jean's sleeping figure one last glance, swiping away a lone tear with his damp sleeve. He can't count with both hands how many times he's left this dark room in the early hours of the morning, leaving Jean to wake alone after another long night of excuses and tears. After everything Jean does for him, all he sacrifices for him, he's going to leave him again. Eren's own self-doubt and depreciation hold him back, and this he has already come to terms with. But why?

Because he's selfish. That's all he is; _fucking selfish._

That one, truthful words cuts him like a knife, slicing up all of his vulnerable pieces and shredding them into unidentifiable clumps of carbon. He doesn't give himself time to heal; he doesn't give himself a chance to heal. _Why would he? He doesn't deserve to heal_. He has to hurt, or he won't ever get to feel anything, because people like him don't deserve to feel.

A grunt escapes his lips as he begins to put on his shoes. _Selfish, huh._.. Of course he is. He's known that for a very long time. _Why even try to deny it anymore?_

He thought that by always doing what other people wanted of him, he would remain a selfless man. And then, the first time he made a decision for himself, he was called selfish - never again would he take his own feelings into account. Who wants to be selfish? He knew, deep down, that he was. It's always just been better to shut it out and pretend that his own feelings don't exist.

Who wants to be in the company of someone who stands up for themselves, anyway? Someone who can't keep their mouth shut; who doesn't know when to quit, who doesn't know where to draw the line nor where to start it. Someone who is always way too over the top, or far below, the social norm of emotions and personality. Someone who can't be themselves, because they don't know what 'self' is.

Who wants to spend time with someone like that?

His friends didn't, his bosses didn't, his coworkers didn't- Hell, not even his own mother did.

 

" _You don't like anything I buy you," She huffed, slamming her feet on the breaks as the traffic lights changed. "You're ungrateful."_

_"Ungrateful? I'm not seven years old anymore! I don't need to keep all of those cars and dinosaurs and crap anymore - I don't need them!" Eren scoffed, legs upright on the dashboard and a bottle of lemonade swinging sporadically in his right hand._

_"You could give 'that crap' to your future children! I'm sure they'd love to have something of yours!" She said, attempting to bite her tongue. "Are you aware of how selfish you're being right now? I try, and try, and try again to do nice things for you and all you do is throw it back in my face-"_

_"Awh come off of it, mom! Selfish? Are you kidding me? Who's the one who jumped at the chance to throw their only fucking son into foster care before he could even go to his first basketball game, huh? That's fucking selfish. And why the fuck would I give my old toys to my future kids when I could buy them new stuff? No one wants secondhand shit. Especially not from their parents - I know I never did," Eren huffed, as he ground his teeth together in seething anger. Why could the traffic just move fucking faster, then they'd be home by now, fuck._

_His mother scoffed. "You're being such a child, this is ridiculous. Don't you care about the sentiment? You loved those things back then, why would you throw them away? Obviously it's because I bought them for you."_

_Eren rolls his eyes, making sure she saw. "Oh for fucks sake, stop thinking every decision I make is based around you! You're my mother, not my fucking God. I did love those things- they were the only things that I loved that didn't leave me, but now I don't need them!" Eren shouts, rage boiling within him. "I don't even need you, so why do you insist on seeing me all the time, huh? Is it to rub the fact that you've got a better child than me in my face? She's so perfect, Mikasa's so wonderful, what an angel! Oh, it's you, Eren; the fuck up, the problem child, the reason I turned to drugs because I couldn't stand living with such a disappointing six year old child?"_

_His mother's face is angry, staring him down as he looses what little cool he had left. She goes to retort, but cuts her off with more ferocity to his words. "Besides, you think you're all crazy on sentiment, but did you ever think about that when you didn't even hesitate to throw me into foster care, because you were too busy getting doped up on whatever the hell you could afford!?"_

_The brunette didn't think twice as he opened the passenger door and slammed it shut behind him, leaving his fuming mother at the traffic lights. He jogged across the road, ignoring the horns beeping him as the lights went green. He stuck up his middle finger, took a sip of his lemonade and kept walking._

_Although there wasn't a single guilty bone in his body, leaving his mother behind him, his venomous words left a bitter taste in his mouth. After all, she'd done just that to him years ago, so what's a little taste of your own medicine? He shouldn't've feel guilty, she deserved what was coming to her._

_With his phone in his back pocket and his lemonade in his hand, he feels like the richest man alive._

 

But knowing what he was walking towards doesn't make him feel so flash. No matter how late in the evening, he'd be met with the same fate as he always is.

**-x-**

Eren takes tentative steps down the wooden corridor, careful not to wake other occupants of Maria. Having Jean and Nanaba know of his affairs is bad enough, but interfering people like them? He doesn't need that.  _Why give other people the opportunity to look down upon you, when you can do it enough to yourself for everyone?_

"I'm heading out, I'll be back sometime around 12am," Eren calls, waving to Nanaba in the kitchen during the early hours of the morning. She waves him out the door with a drawn-out yawn, completely disregarding his attire. Eren's wearing a pair of ripped short jeans and a black tank top, which shows off his defined tanned arms. Usually, he would wear skinny jeans and a normal shirt - what he considers normal, at least. But he's out to find work later tonight.

He can't have any regard for his own comfort. He has to appease the customers.

He knows what they like, and he knows how to accentuate his best features and hide his worst. By that, he flirts and fucks, that's it. No small talk, no banter, nothing. Flat out, 'I'll fuck for twenty bucks.' That's about all he has to say to get a customer or four in the same night.

Eren tells himself that forty dollars every second day is enough money to sell his body for. He isn't worth anymore than that, anyway. And It's not like he was saving his body for anyone in particular, it's his to hand around as much as he pleases. Even if he does feel like a complete, total loser after the night is through.

Eren's mind races, the skin between his thumb and forefinger seeking solace between his teeth. He bites down hard, telling himself that he needs to calm down, that he has to work through this on his own. He doesn't have anyone else, anyway. Who else could help him through it? This world is full of liars, who say they'll be there when they aren't. Why would Eren even waste his time asking for help, only to be denied it when he needs it most? 

Eren sighs, slightly shaking his head at his own thoughts. Who knew that giving and getting nothing in return could have such an affect on someone? He always thinks of the money, in the end, but he know's he craves something more, something deeper. He wouldn't find that out on the streets of Trost though. He knows that the people in this city are there for freebies, and that's all that he has to offer.

Eren's no-strings-attached services seem to work wonders for his bank account, but do terrible things to his body and self-esteem. Especially as he wants nothing more than to blow his hard earned cash on unnatural highs that would surely land him in hospital for a second time. He takes a deep breath of chilly, morning air. _Fight it, fight it, fight it._ His hand shakes, blood blisters forming beneath the surface if his skin, and a trail of saliva left joined to his lips. He wipes it away on his shirt, rubbing lightly at the marks on his skin and emitting a dry chuckle.

He's _so fucked in the head._

He'd thought he would feel good about himself, having people pining after him with their wallets open and zippers down. But, it doesn't. He knows he's being used, and that he will never be given anything in return - at least, nothing above a few dollars and a slap on the arse as he leaves.

_Is this how he wants to spend the rest of his life?_

He'd spent the entire night crying into Jean's chest, which had become a habit of his. _Who wants to spend time with someone like that?_ He knows he wouldn't, so why would he dare stay with Jean. He's just like the rest of them, after all. He's always been like the rest of them; a user. He uses people, and leaves, without so much as a 'thank you.'

But Jean doesn't deserve to be left alone to wake up to no one. He's a good guy, and Eren would be lying if he didn't think of Jean as just a friend. But, even he was sensible enough to know that he and Jean wouldn't work out. They were far too alike to be a perfect match. There wasn't anything they didn't have a similar opinion on, and wouldn't that be boring at the dinner table?

Early-morning rain scatters droplets on the cool pavement, moistening Eren's hot skin. When he nears the shopping district, he picks up the pace after the traffic lights, longing for the mountainous air he dreams of. Even if he must spend the rest of his days in agony, it's all worth it for five minutes of peace.

His heart dances in anticipation of a downpour. Eren loves the rain, especially in Trost. It always makes him contemplate life, but his stomach fills with the kind of butterflies that leave you wanting more. It's a feeling he can't describe, but it's one that can't exactly be felt with words.

Although the rain is something Eren enjoys, he loves it watch it pour down from high above the city, where his mind can wander to far off places that his body will never reach. Up there, he doesn't have to think about anything. He can feel what he wants, and he can be who he is, without feeling obliged to fit under the social construct umbrella which so despises him.

 

* * *

 

The crunch of a twig snapping beneath trainer-clad feet and the buzzing symphony of cicadas creates an atmospheric wellness. Their laboured breathing is accompanied by the soft drumming of rain beginning to wet the dirt trail they follow.

On days like today, Eren wakes only to run, and the leaves crunching beneath his feet as Autumn draws closer relaxes his mind and body. Up here, nothing can hurt him. There's no one waiting to use him or make him feel worthless; he's completely free. Free to forget about who he is back in Trost. And even if has to run fifteen kilometres to make it up to Sina Mountain Range, he'll do it.

On chillier days, he'd be accompanied by the introverted Levi, who preferred to run in silence, occasionally swearing under his breath when his knee would play up. They never spoke much, but Eren often offered him looks to suggest 'are you okay?' to which Levi's eyes would reply, 'yes,' although he obviously wasn't. Half way through their usual route, they'd be joined by Ymir. Both she and Levi barely spoke, not to each other, or to Eren, unless to announce an upcoming ditch or fallen log. Eren doesn't consider himself a man of many friends when he runs, preferring the solitude it offers, but these two are his silent exception.

When they reach the clearing atop their mountainous escape, they rest. They barely exchange glances, opting to drink their water and look out at the valley below them; misty from the rain and blanketed with ochre leaves. Ymir will bring Oreos, on occasion, and offer them to Eren and Levi, who both accept. Other times, they stand or sit in silence for a while, taking in the serene surroundings of the valley below, seemingly forgotten in the 21st century.

But, they aren't why Eren runs. It's nice to know people who don't know who you really are and what you do, but they're not his safety blanket. He runs for many purposes; to escape the clenching jaws of life; to breathe the untainted mountain air; to release the tension in his body from work; to stop at the bookstore on his way back to Maria and purchase yet another book he will probably never read, even if only to see him for a second out of his day.

Running gives Eren a leash on life that he wouldn't get otherwise. For all its worth, Eren will take it.

He stops at the clearing beside the picnic space, standing with his hands perched on his hips to marvel at the valley below. It hadn't occurred to him before, but Trost is a big city; no wonder he feels so small. Up here though, he feels like a giant. He can stare down at that life-crushing city and laugh in its face, because up here, he's escaped its fiery clutches.

Up here, he's _free_.

Trost's large buildings manage to loom over everyone, creating a cage that traps their dreams and separates their aspirations from their 9-5 jobs. Away from that cage, he knows who he is. He's a free spirit, and he'll be damned if he's going to let Trost bring him down again.

Autumn leaves crackle behind him, the thrumming of heavy footsteps louder than the serenity he'd indulged himself in.

"Oi, kid."

Eren turns to see Levi, puffing a little more that usual. He approaches Eren, holding out a water bottle for him and rubbing at his left knee. "Here, you shouldn't run without being properly hydrated."

Eren's slightly taken aback at the sound of Levi's voice, firm and content, but takes it gratefully. "Thanks, Levi."

Silence falls between them, as leaves dance around their feet, swept away by the soft push of the mountainous breeze. After a few moments, Levi takes a seat on a bench, to retie a shoelace. "Where's Freckle-Face?" He asks, looking up at Eren through his long, dark bangs.

Eren assumes he means Ymir, the woman who usually joins them on their runs. He hadn't seen her at all today, come to think of it. He shrugs. "I don't know. I guess she's busy today." It hadn't occurred to him, but this is the first conversation Eren's had with Levi. They've been running together twice a week for nearly seven months now, yet they'd never said more than 'hello.'

He's so far up. He's so far away from the toxic city atmosphere, and the toxic monsters walking amongst the day crowd, pretending to be people that they aren't.

Eren can scream from the top of his lungs, telling the city and the people below that it will not take control of Eren. He wants to shout out every feeling he's ever felt, and make sure that traffic is stopped for everyone to listen to the crazy man shouting form the mountains.

Trost really can't get him down up here, can it?

"What's with your outfit?" Levi asks, taking his water bottle once Eren's done with it, taking a large mouthful, and standing beside him.

With a girlish giggle, Eren bats his eyelids. "Can't a girl feel pretty?"

Levi's eyes widen, wiping excess water from his mouth. "You're a girl? Shit..."

Eren chuckles. "I'm kidding. This is all I had, I haven't done washing in a few weeks."

Levi nods with a tight-lipped smile, not seeing past Eren's blatant lie. Together, they stand and watch over the city below them, unable to hear car horns beeping and the sounds of sirens echoing off of tall skyscrapers. They don't address each other again, parting ways silently at the base of the mountain. Levi goes right, headed down the the Eastern end of Trost, and Eren jogs back to the city centre. It's nearly 3pm, which means Pixis' Pick is almost closed, which also means it's almost time to get to work.

He revels in the feeling of not aching too much. His bruises hurt to press, and there are a few scars that aren't quite healed yet, but everything else is fine. Right now, he's really, truly fine.

_Why's it so hard to stay that way?_

Eren takes a sharp left at the bottom of the hill, nearly breaking a sprint to make it to the bookstore before the staff start to leave. Luckily, some god or another is on his side, and there are still plenty of people inside when he reaches the front door.

 _Pixis' Pick_ smells of leather-bound pages and dust-coated shelves, some left untouched for decades. Eren's stomach flutters at the thought of whom he will see in the borrowing section. He's familiar with the surroundings, knowing to turn left at the front counter and follow the rows upon rows of towering bookshelves until he reaches the third row, where he turns right and meets the piercing baby blue eyes of his dreams. The bookstore employee,  _Armin A._

The only thing Eren knows about his blue-eyes beauty is his name, and what a pretty name it is. Armin A; it rolls off of Eren's tongue as easily as his own, but leaves a taste far sweeter.

He's never had enough courage to introduce himself, but the longer he stares at Armin's tiny figure, the more desperate he is to run up to him and share in his warm embrace.

Armin is the most beautiful person Eren has ever seen, and no matter how hard he tries, he just can't keep himself away. Armin doesn't even know Eren's name, but he would rather savour a thousand stolen glances than scare him off too soon. He's so fragile-looking, he may break if Eren approached him too quickly.

Armin looks up from the computer, tucking a strand of hair behind his ears and adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. He notices Eren staring, and smiles bashfully at him, raising his hand in a tiny wave. Eren's face becomes heated, and he manages only a fleeting smile before shying away amongst the bookshelves.

He swears he hears Armin giggle.

Eren's heart races, threatening to jump out of his chest and right into Armin's hands. He giggled, he fucking giggled. Eren peeks out at Armin between the book shelf, watching him type something into the computer and stretch his arms wide above his head.

He looks so bony, like he hasn't eaten a solid meal in months. If Eren had the money, he would take him out to dinner right away, even if it meant he had to miss out. To see this flower petal with a smile on his face, seated across from Eren at a fancy restaurant, is an image Eren fears he will only ever see in his dreams.

A boy as beautiful as this... If he isn't taken already, there's no way there aren't other people after him. Eren has to act fast, or else he'll never get the chance.

With one last glance over his shoulder, Eren leaves the bookshop, already late for his first appointment of the evening. With his mind clouded with work, he misses Armin's watchful eye see him out the door. Eren had organised three customers for tonight, and if he stayed on schedule, he'd be able to fit them all in - both literally and figuratively, he chuckles to himself.

The air outside is laced with the relentless chill of Trost's relentless winter. With it being so close to Christmas, he has to work more to earn more; he wants to get Jean something nice this Christmas, something he can treasure. Eren draws his jacket close to his chest, wishing he had something just a little thicker. However, knowing he wouldn't be wearing too much in the near future, he pushes that thought aside for the moment.

He hated having to do that. He hated having to forget his ambitions, simply because this city can't stand them. You can't even dream in Trost without being reminded of the harsh reality one has to face every day of their pitiful life, because dreams are shunned by people who never really even achieved their own.

Eren lived amongst the wind for so long, but the trees in Trost have long since been chopped down, and Eren can no longer move freely. He's dependent, he's confused, he's _stuck_. Stuck in the same place for what feels like the rest of his life. This place has stripped him of everything, but even coming to terms with that doesn't make the hurt less prevalent.

Eren reaches the steps of the familiar cheap motel, _Berner's Stop N' Go_. He takes a deep breath and takes a piece of paper from his pocket, written on it three numbers and times:  
**14 - 5:15  
6 - 5:45  
12 - 6:00**

He knows the guy who books room six is an absolute tool, but the girl from room twelve is beautiful. He's never had anyone book into room fourteen before. He's not sure he can even remember them at all. He takes the steps up to room fourteen and knocks only once before the door unlocks and he's dragged inside. A large-bellied man marks up his neck immediately, mouthing wetly down to his chest, mumbling into Eren's skin. "You're late, that's five dollars less."

He sighs, starting to take off his shirt. "Okay," He says blankly, worrying how he can make this experience less painful, as this man does nothing for his usually active libido.

"What was that, slut?" The man snaps, slapping Eren on the arse.

Eren's broken from his selfish thoughts. "Yes, master," He says in a sultry whisper, desperately hiding the fact he wants to deck the guy.

The man grins, and once he slips $35 beneath Eren's phone, Eren complies with his every wish. He's taken all around the room, in different positions, and forced to pay special attention to the man's sickeningly small penis for more time than the actual sex takes.

Eren leaves feeling completely unsatisfied, but far less sore than he'd imagined. That guys all take and no give. However, Eren is glad that he can probably manage to go back to Maria's with only a few hickeys.

Before he's at the door of room six, at least.

The door swings open before he can knock, and Eren is greeted with the familiar face of his most frequent customer, Nile Dawk. State senate, candidate for PM, and captain of the Military Police; rape-fantasy addict, disrespectful, dirty minded, cheating husband Nile Dawk.

Eren barely manages to squeak out a, "I'm already prepped," as Nile holds Eren up against the wall by his throat. Far less gentler than the man before him, Nile enters Eren in a single motion, pinning him into the wall.

"Mmph, been thinking about doing this all day. Your tight little ass takes me so well, you know that? _Fuck_... Marie doesn't amount to anything you've got to offer," Nile groans, sucking a hickey into Eren's neck from behind. "Glad I caught you here, it's so late, what's a poor kid like you doing out here? Lookin' for some fun, huh?"

Nile's in full swing tonight, already playing out his fucked-up fantasies with Eren as his victim. If the other PM candidates new Nile had sex with Eren, pretending he was a school-aged teenager who was being raped, he would be named and shamed for the rest of his life.

As Nile grabs Eren's cock with a rough hand, pulling at it with brute force, Eren stays calm and takes it. He'd hoped Nile would have shown him just a little mercy and made sure he was comfortable, but he knew that was a pretty useless thing to think. Nile hadn't even given Eren a chance to give him a safe word. He probably wouldn't get the chance to use it, anyway. That thought makes Eren's stomach churn uncomfortably.

Nile takes Eren from behind, slamming into him with evenly-paced thrusts. He orders Eren to pretend to be afraid, to try and escape Nile's clutches, to call him a filthy names and berate him for being such a, 'dirty, perverted, old man.'

Eren complies, meaning everyt horrible thing he says to the scruffy-bearded man, but it only turns Nile on. He throws Eren to the bed flips him over, hurting his shoulder in the process. When Eren cries out, Nile slaps him. "Shut up and enjoy it, you filthy fuckin' whore. This is what you get when you fuck guys who aren't nearly as good a fuck as I am."

Eren hates the way Nile manages to bring him to climax; hates the way he feels completely satisfied as he leaves with $40 more in his wallet, yet his mind still yearns for an escape.

They'd finished early, Nile sending Eren packing as his wife called to see when he would be home for dinner. And so, Nile leaves without another word, and Eren sits on the stairs for a few minutes, staring up at the stars.

He's got a total of $75 so far, only in one night.

 _Would that be enough to numb the pain?_ He wonders. _Jean wouldn't have to know. I would get him something cheaper, or later. He wouldn't mind. And it could just be my little secret..._

A few minutes before 6pm, Eren knocks on the door of room twelve, and a young blonde woman answers. He's learnt her name to be Krista (an alias, she tells him, to protect her identity), and whilst she pays him to visit her every so often, they've only had sex twice.

The only thing Krista craves is someone who will listen to her, and whilst Eren isn't opposed to having sex with women, he's more than happy to end his working evening sitting with her on the floor of a cheap motel, with a few glasses of wine and re-runs of _How I Met Your Mother._

"Thanks for coming, Eren. I'm really glad you still do this for me," Krista says, handing Eren a glass of wine.

Eren shakes his head, happily accepting it. "It's no trouble. I like spending time with you. I'd probably do it without the pay, but..."

"No, no," Krista says, sitting down beside him. "You need the money, and I've got it. It's just nice to have someone I can feel good with every now and then... And someone I can trust, I guess."

Eren takes a long sip. "Your girl not treating you well?" He asks. He's often felt bad for being the one Krista is cheating on her unnamed girlfriend with, but Krista assures him that her girlfriend has been cheating on her for a while.

At least, that's the feeling she gets anyway. And she assures him she's not cheating, she's only exploring her sexuality. 

Krista shrugs, setting her glass down on the uneven carpet. "Well, of course she is. She's a lesbian - she knows what girls like!" Krista chuckles. "It's just that... _God_ , I can't help but feel like she's not as committed as I am to what we've got, you know?"

Eren raises an eyebrow, but let's her continue. "I mean, I've brought her gifts every Valentine's Day. I know her birthday, I know her favourite restaurants, and I even go to see shitty movies that I can't stand with her, just because she likes them," She whines. "Y- She doesn't do any of that for me. I'd need more than both hands to count the times I've been stood up or forgotten about, all because she's got 'business' to do. 'Oh, sorry baby, I'd completely forgotten. I'll make it up to you next time, I promise,' She says. But does she ever? No. Not once."

Krista sighs, resting her head in her arms, cradling her knees to her chest. "I just feel like a total waste of space to her..."

Eren puts a comforting arm around her, drawing her in closer. "Hey now, that's not true. Have you tried telling her everything you've just told me? If she really loves you, surely she'd understand and try to change her ways."

Krista shakes her head slowly, leaning against Eren's chest and setting her glass of wine down on the carpet beside her. "She doesn't understand how I feel, no matter what I say to her. She's got about as many emotions as a brick wall, because she's afraid of opening up..."

"I tell her everything, Eren, yet she can't even spare me an explanation as to why I haven't even been introduced to her family yet? We've been dating for six years, Eren, six _fucking_ years! She knows my folks, even my extended family, and I haven't even seen _pictures_ of her family," She exasperates. "I mean, you know where I told her I am? Working at my grandmothers farm. Utter bullshit, but I guess if she can lie, I can too."

Eren rubs small circles on Krista's shoulder, trying to calm her fuming figure. She leans into the touch, emitting stuttering breaths, and Eren can feel a longing within his stomach beginning to form.

"Eren," She whispers, leaning up closer to nip at the shell of his ear. "If I offer you $50, would you make me feel good?"

Eren only feels the slightest tinge of guilt as he moves his hand toward her groin without a second thought, making her shiver as he presses a single finger lightly against her entrance through her underwear. He'd do it for free, honestly - but $50 is $50. Who is he to deny cash for pleasuring such a lovely young woman?

With Krista, he's allowed to be selfish, too. She gives as much as he does, and so, he's more than happy to accept his selfishness on nights like these.

Eren marks up her neck with loving kisses, whispering for her to lie on the bed. She complies quickly, heart beating fast, and Eren crawls between her spread legs hanging over the edge of the bed. He peppers light kisses on her thighs, and Krista draws in a sharp breath, one hand running fingers through Eren's sex-tussled hair.

Eren pulls her skirt down to her ankles, making brief eye-contact with her before he presses his lips against her underwear, causing her to throw her head back in pleasure.

"Been pent up, huh?" Eren mumbles, his hands sliding up either side of her waist to pull at her underwear. "You're already so wet. Been thinkin' about me, or your girlfriend?"

Krista chuckles giddily, as cool air hits her exposed core. "I hate to say it, but you. I've been thinking about you, Ere- Ah!"

Eren spreads her lower lips with his fingers, licking a stripe between her folds and making her shiver. Her grip on his hair tightens, pulling his face closer towards her wet heat. Eren grins against her sensitive skin, one hand kneading at her thigh, the other holding open her labia.

His warm tongue reaches places within her core that only her girlfriend had managed to reach. Barely. Eren tongues wetly at her clit, flicking it with abandon, making Krista writhe with pleasure.

"Eren, _Eren_ , _fuck_ \- Ah! Oh, take me, please," Krista moans, attempting to sit up. Her stomach muscles convulse as she climaxes quickly, soaking Eren's face. She's breathless, reaching to pull Eren on top of her. "Eren," She breathes. "Fuck me, _please_."

He doesn't need to be asked twice. Eren rids himself of his jeans and shirt, looming over Krista with a sultry look in his eyes; is motions are predatory, hungry, and Krista's core tingles with apprehension. She reaches a hand forward to thumb at the tip of Eren's cock, revealing in the way his mouth hangs open. "That's naughty," Eren groans, removing Krista's hand from his cock.

Eren makes sure Krista is comfortable, then enters her slowly, letting her squeeze his hand until she's ready. Once Krista tells him to move, Eren is relentless. He pounds into her with reckless abandon, allowing his own whoreish moans to join hers, sending them both into a frenzy.

Krista demands a change of position, laying Eren onto his back and positioning her entrance over his cock. She sinks down onto him, moaning loudly at the feeling of his entire length inside her. Eren reaches up to place his hands on her hips, meeting her bouncing thrusts halfway, hands guiding her grinding to a faster pace.

"Ooh, _fuck_ ," Eren moans, hips slapping against the skin of Krista's glorious ass. "C'mon Krista, fuck me like you mean it." He slams her ass playfully, and she shrieks with a laugh.

"Ah! Oh- Eren! Faster!" She screams, placing her palms on his chest.

They both near their climax, and Eren takes over. He thrusts up into her three times, before she comes with a drawn-out whine, begging him not to stop, to fuck her _harder_. He turns her over, and as they lie chest-to-chest, he comes inside of her without a warning.

Eren's hurried apology falls on deaf ears as Krista leans over to kiss him passionately on the mouth. "Don't worry," She whispers, removing her body from his. "I have a birth control implant. It's fine."

Eren's comical sigh of relief makes Krista chuckle. But as her phone starts to ring, the lighthearted after-sex feeling leaves Eren's gut. Replacing it, that same feeling of selfish, worthless hatred.

He can hear a female voice on the other end of the line, and when Krista whispers to him that it's her girlfriend, he's already getting dressed. Eren leaves with one last wave, to which Krista continues happily chatting with her girlfriend, handing Eren a $50 with a toothy smile.

Eren shoots Krista's room one last glance, before heading off down the road towards East Trost. _No more after this_ , he tells himself. _This will be the last time I use. Just one more for old times sake, and that's it._

He's lying to himself though, and he knows it. It's been the last time for over six months, and every time, five minutes of giving into his cravings isn't worth a lifetime of regret. He wants to stop, but the more convincing side of him says that he needs this to survive.

 

* * *

 

Trost is a big city, and out there, it's eat or be eaten. He's no longer in the mountains anymore. He's not hidden behind the masks of sex, or company, or the freshly rained in soil; he's back in reality. Eren's just another underdog in a wolf pack, and that's the way it's always going to be. Why not live beneath the wolves with a little security?

A howling wind unsettles Eren's composure, causing his determination to deter. He _knows_ he shouldn't be doing this. He knows this is wrong, and that if Nanaba, or Jean, or Armin found out, they'd never want anything to do with him. Even if Armin doesn't even know him yet... He's promised so many people things that he can't stick to. 'I'm sorry,' has become, 'I won't do it again,' too many times to count, but even then he doesn't stick to what he says.

Not even he believes what he says, so how is he supposed to do right by himself if he knows he's a liar? He's making a conscience decision to do this. He isn't blinded by need, or love, or _addiction_. He's doing this simply because he can. Right?

Eren's hand finds its way into his mouth, where he tears at the skin with strong teeth, drawing blood. His anxiety strikes fear into his system, and adrenaline has to be released somehow. Eren's unsteady steps lead him to the back garage of an abandoned warehouse, exactly five miles outside of Trost Central, where he wipes his bloody hand on his shirt, seeing lighters lit in various places in the dark. He keeps his eyes to the ground, avoiding the people lurking about in the shadows, awaiting to claim their next vicitm.

West Trost is like a free-range state for the mentally unstable and completely-fucked-up. Eren's considered moving here, but being surrounded by people who scare him made him reconsider. He meets his supplier at the end if the street, who's sat on a crate smoking a cigarette. When he sees Eren, a toothless smile graces his lips. "Eren. Long time no see, uh?"

Eren swallows, stepping closer to the hunched shadow of a man. "Samuel..." Eren says, fingers itching to wrap around a the plastic packaging sticking out of the other man's pocket. "I got $50."

Samuel chuckles, bumming his cigarette against the gravel. "Well, isn't it just ya lucky day, huh? I got a strong one here."

Eren exchanges the white powder for a $50 note, sliding it eagerly into Samuel's hand. "How's about next time we have a lil stab together, huh? For old times sake?"

Eren's biceps tingle, scabs long since formed begging to be re-opened by the thin sting of a needle. Eren shrugs, itching to get back to the Trost he is familiar with his powder in the palm of his hand. "Y-Yeah, sure. We'll do that."

Eren leaves in a hurry, giving Samuel a dismissive goodbye, and shoving the cocaine deep within the confines of his jeans.  
Thick clouds have set in, making Eren's walk back to Maria a little chillier than he'd anticipated. He rubs subconsciously at the healing wounds on his upper arm. _Maybe taking one hit with Samuel would be so bad?_ He managed to stop before, what's one more going to kill him?

Eren makes it back to Maria's a little before 12am, taking the fire escape up to his and Jean's room, rather than the front door. He should have made enough to pay Nanaba the rent. If she asks and he doesn't have it, she'll know where he's been.

He'll be kicked out for good.

The window opens with a few tugs, and Eren silos inside with ease. The bathroom light is on beneath the door, so Eren can only assume that Jean is in there. He hides the powder-filled baggie beneath his mattress, stripping himself of his clothes and sliding beneath the sheets.

Something eats away at the back of his mind, this guilt that never seems to leave him. Eren reminds himself that it's his life, and he's free to live it however he wants. But there's that inkling of self-doubt that says to him  _I need to get help._ He's failed Jean, he's failed Nanaba, and he's failed every other fucking person who's ever had the guts to trust him or even spare him a second of their time. He knows he's too far gone now. He's already got it in his possession, and if that isn't self-proclaimed defeat then he doesn't know what is.

Eren's gut is surged with instant regret. _Why did he buy it..._ He needs to get rid of it. It doesn't matter if no one knows that he bought it and got rid of it. _He can be proud of_ _himself, right? That isn't selfish, is it?_

But he only knows one way to get rid of cocaine, without anyone else knowing it was ever there in the first place. The saying, ' _you reap what you sow_ ,' enters his mind, and he draws in a sharp breath as Jean exists the bathroom.

He'll just need a few days to calm himself down afterwards with no one around. He can manage one withdrawal on his own, can't he? He used to do it all the time. This time won't be any different, will it? Eren decides that after Christmas, he'll do it, and then he'll stay away for a few days and that will be that. He'll do the heroin, he'll go through withdrawal, and he'll come back alive and free of drugs in his system and possession. 

It can't be that hard. He can't even remember why he stopped using in the first place.


	3. Marco, Pt. I

 

 

 

 

 

> " _If there is no struggle, there is no progress"_ \- **Frederick Douglas**

 

 _Trost, Los Angeles_ ; a concrete jungle of it's own kind, home to a symphony of car-horn cicadas, a toxic fume skyline, and animals disguised as businessmen. And when you're among those on the bottom of the corporate food chain, there are only so many ways you can get by.

Sirens sound in the backstreets of West Trost, screaming sounds echoing off of the tall city buildings, as two pairs of worn rubber-soled shoes splash hard against puddles of rainwater and sewerage. Red and blue flashes illuminate the pavement, and heavy breathing falters as the pair of young people round the corner into a dark alley, catching their breath for a few moments against the cool brick of an abandoned butcher. 

Marco Bodt presses a hand to his chest, revelling in the feeling of his heart drumming through his rib cage like a marching band chorus. His knees are weak, his head feels heavy, and the stolen wallet in his bloodstained palm burns through his skin like molten rock. All of this reminds him that, not only is he alive, he's _living;_ for better or for worse, he's living. 

Police sirens get closer, and Marco grabs the hand of his accomplice, dragging her cackling figure down the alley to scale the rusty wire fence leading into the container complex. Their laugher echoes down the empty street as they climb the fence, kicking over abandoned crates and landing swiftly on the other side, sprinting down the long stretch of storefronts. It's illegal, and highly dangerous, to drive down this road over 40km/hr, so they both know they're safe. They run a little slower, but revel in the feeling of the cool breeze blowing through their hair. Clothes and flyaway hairs stick to their bodies from sweat, but the change in pace allows them to savour the last legs of their shared adrenaline rush.

Their pace slows, as the pair of them find solace at the doorstep of a familiar tavern-come-club in Trost's _Little Italy_. Opening the cracked opaque doors, they are greeted with the pungent smells of alcohol and sex, and engulfed by the smoke of over a hundred strong cigarettes. Although the poles aren't being worked at this time of night, it's clear they had a successful evening. Many customers are still passed out, although it's far past closing time. 

As Marco's accomplice leaves him at the entrance, quickly making her way to the phone booth, he's left to face the possible wrath of their 'gracious employer.'

"Marco, Marco! You've finally returned," shouts the booming voice of Tino Petruzali, Little Italy's leading businessman and bar owner. "Everyone, meet my favourite son, Marco!"

Clearly, he's drunk; if his red face isn't enough of a sign, the way his words slur together is. Marco is beckoned towards the large table, surrounded by large, beefy men, clutching onto glasses of alcohol for dear life. He approaches reluctantly, tongue held firmly between his teeth. "Foster son," Marco corrects, with bite to his words. "And yes, here's what you wanted."

Marco shows Tino the wallet, pouring it's contents out onto the table as the other men gawk at him. Tino smiles smugly. "You've done well. Where's that good-for-nothing Ymir?"

Marco swallows, sharp eyes darting around the room. "She's over at the bar. I'll get it from her." He leaves behind the drunken chorus to meet Ymir at the bar, knowing how she hates to go on these business trips for so long. Although, it's not exactly Marco's favourite pastime either. Sometimes it can take them weeks to find the men and women they're after, let alone figuring out how and where to ambush them away from the public eye. Ymir's finishing up on the phone, legs fidgeting beneath the bar stool, fingers tangling in her hair. Ymir hangs up as Marco approaches, a large, nostalgic smile plastered on her face. "Historia?" He asks her, though already knowing the answer, and she nods.

"Yeah. She sounded so worn out, too. She must be working hard," Ymir says, sighing into her palm. "I guess it's lucky we both had somewhere to be these past few days. I hate leaving her in the dark about what I- we do, but..."

"It has to be done," Marco finishes. "Do you have the baggie?"

Ymir grunts, handing Marco a small plastic bag, holding other smaller plastic bags containing drug concoctions of all sorts. "Of course. 'S a pity we can't have this stuff, right?" She chuckles dryly.

Marco shakes his head with a grin. "You need to sort out your priorities, Ymir. If you get caught again, you'll be away from Historia for longer then you're already gong to be."

He takes the drugs to Tino, and leaves without further word. If Tino notices even one package missing, the very same Marco had seen in the back pocket of Ymir's jeans, there will be hell to pay. For the both of them. And Marco's done with going through hell to repay a debt left unsettled by his late father. As soon as he has done what he has to do, he's out of here.

Better yet, he could just leave tonight. Or tomorrow night.

He just doesn't want to leave alone.

As Marco and Ymir take their leave from the tavern, they pass by the alley way in which Marco had yet again encountered a frantic Franz, the man who was relentless in ensuring that Little Italy became a place unsafe for the general public. At least, more unsafe that it already is, thanks to Marco and Ymir's assistance in the network of the Underground.

But hands left untainted aren't hands at all, in this line of work. Not according to Tino anyway. 

Marco remembers the man he'd helped that day. _Jean_. Jean who had tawny eyes, ash blonde hair with a darkness underneath, a sharp and pale face - what do they call that feeling, when you've possibly fallen in love with someone at first sight? Marco can easily remember every detail about him from that one chance meeting. He could tell that Trost seemed to have been getting him down, too. Perhaps he would take up the opportunity to flee this place for good? Marco wouldn't make him pay back any debts, he would simply come along for the ride. An accomplice, of sorts. But with less expectation. 

One that won't abandon him the second her girlfriend rings up and requests to know her whereabouts, only to hang up forlorn when she isn't given every detail.

Ymir kicks Marco's shin from beside him, causing him to jolt. "Bodt, you gotta stop zoning out like that," She says with a grunt, pulling Marco up onto the sidewalk and out of oncoming traffic. "Dreaming ain't gonna get you away from here."

Marco chuckles, crossing his arms. He had to stop becoming attached to strangers. He clears his throat. "Sorry, just caught by my thoughts, I guess."

Ymir raises an eyebrow. "That kid still on your mind, huh?" She asks, a cunning glint in her eyes. Marco averts his eyes for a few moments, and Ymir knows that if he tries to lie, his actions have just ruined it for him.

Clearly, Marco realises this, once he makes eye contact with a frowning Ymir once more. He lets out a nasal sigh in defeat. "Mm. He just looked so... I don't know. Familiar? Whatever it was, it just made me want to wrap him in a blanket and hold him until he looked a little better." Marco knits his eyebrows in confusion. Surely he hadn't fallen so quickly again for some sorry-looking person on the street who needed help.

Surely he's learnt his lesson by now, the lesson of messing with strangers. He'd've thought that after two years of unnecessary pain, his mind would know where to draw the line between a grateful person and a schoolyard crush.

Ymir chuckles, sensing Marco's conscious thoughts being taken from him yet again. "I thought you said he was attractive?" She chides. " _Blankets_ don't fix ugly."

Marco shoves her as she cackles, shaking his head with a dim grin. "Ymir, I'm being serious. I told you what I'd seen, he looked seriously sick."

"Aren't we all though?" Ymir sighs, shoving her hands into her pockets, tilting her head to look up at the few stars left unaffected by the neon haze of the city. "Sick of working, sick of Trost - sick in the head. We're all sick. There isn't a prize for who looks better or worse. Don't beat yourself up over some stranger, Marco. He's just as sick as the rest of us - I'm sure he's used to it by now."

Marco can't help the sinking feeling in his stomach at Ymir's words. _She's right_. Everyone seems to be just another bohemian living within Trost's deep, dark underbelly.

"Do we have to be though?" Marco asks, more so to himself. "Why should we have to live our lives sick, when we could all probably pull through it if everyone just allowed others to heal?"

Ymir snorts. "You think the people in this town are capable of 'pulling through'? Marco, no one wants to pull through anything. If we've all got problems, we're all on the same level. Competition of who's worse off will always exist, but at least everyone's got something to compete over."

She puts an arm around Marco's shoulders, drawing him in closer to her. "Don't you think it's a good time to stop trying to heal the world, and just focus on getting yourself through it first? You're just another intricate design in Tino's master web, you're not some superhero."

Marco sighs, placing his arm around Ymir's waist. "I'm trying," He starts. "It's just hard when you can see people who used to stand in two feet relying on you to bring them a crutch they never needed."

Ymir shakes her head, turning Marco's slowly tiring body down their street. "You've gotta get that chip off your shoulders, Bodt. Your involvement in other people's addictions is just like a cats involvement in the death of a gold fish. It seems like the most reasonable thing to blame, but maybe the goldfish was just sick."

Marco ponders Ymir's words for a few moments, before grinning slightly. "Thought you said we were all sick. Does our involvement cure that, or make it worse?" He says, then smiles to himself before asking her playfully, "And how are you high already?"

She elbows him in the ribs. "That was a perfectly good analogy, and you know it," She laughs. "Get your ass upstairs, I'm hungry."

"But, I thought you were Ym-"

" _Don't_. Don't you fucking dare."

Marco's dry laughter rings throughout the near-empty apartment complex. Out of the fourteen apartments, only three of them are occupied, given the stingy and dangerous location. Cheap apartments in Trost are easy to get ahold of, so long as you don't mind the occasional murder, arson, illegal fireworks, drug dealerships and hookers finding refuge beneath the windows, or in empty apartments.

Marco and Ymir use the remaining light of the gaslights outside the complex to make it inside the building, both fed up with the lack of power in the area.

The power cuts out after 9pm, and usually turns on around 10am, and not one of the electricians can figure out why. The hot water only lasts for forty minutes within 24hrs, the walls are as thin as Bible paper, and there are various sharp objects sticking out of said walls, left untouched by tenants who are yet to be vaccinated against whatever could be lurking in those things.

As if anyone can afford vaccinations in this city though. No one earns enough to get them, and the people who do are all trying to boycott them.

Ymir and Marco share apartment 07, directly opposite oddly numbered apartment 111, who's inhabited by ex-dancer Annie Leonhardt. Annie doesn't usually talk to anyone, preferring to keep her thoughts and private past to herself, but she and Marco have spoken a few times when there's been an unexplained fire in the building. Said unexplained fires occur whenever the third and last resident of the complex, Reiner Braun, cooks for himself. Though Marco doesn't hold it against him when it happens; Reiner has too many problems for a little fire to be an issue. 

As it turns out, Trost is a pretty small city, and two ex-lovers of a gigantic heartbreaker can, in fact, live together with no hard feelings. Towards each other, at least. They've both had a fair few conversations about a certain Bertholdt Fubar in their time. But, no matter how much Marco loathes him for what he's done, he has to be thankful for the time they did spend together. He owes a lot to the existence of Bertholdt Fubar.

"Evenin'," Marco says, passing Annie outside the entrance. She sits cross-legged on the remains of a garden wall, her phone in one hand and a cigarette hanging from her fingertips. She gives a curt nod in greeting, barely lifting her eyes from the screen, and Marco and Ymir continue their ascent up two flights of stairs.

Whoever designed this apartment complex clearly did it high, or had absolutely no idea of how numbers and elevators worked into the daily life of a fairly normal human being.

Once they reach the second flight, Ymir complaining about her sore thighs, Reiner's shouts boom around the corridor, like surround-sound at the cinema. "It's not my fault! I promise!" He shouts, voice cracking as if he's in tears. A few moments of silence are left before he continues, "I did it! And I'm sorry! I couldn't help it!" and Marco throws Ymir _The Look._

 _The Look;_ Marco's way of somehow getting across exactly what he's thinking at feeling in the moment, without having to breath a word of it to anyone. How he does it, no one knows, but there are man variations of _The Look_ , and Ymir hates every one of them. She clicks her tongue as they make their way up the last flight of stairs, turning to make their way blindly through the stretch of hallway leading to their apartment. "'S kinda sad, but what can you do?" She shrugs, struggling to find the house key in her back pocket.

As the door unlocks, Marco can't help but pause to look at the area of the corridor at the stairs, Reiner's shouts still ringing around them. "Maybe I should check to see if he's okay," Marco says, guilt heavy on his mind. He wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that Reiner was having another breakdown, no doubt alone again - nor would he be able to sleep _through_ Reiner's shouting. 

Ymir shakes her head with a sigh, already stripped down to her underwear and clutching a glass of orange juice. "Marco, really? He's on-and-off dating your horrible ex-boyfriend, and you're actually considering seeing if he's okay? He's a big guy, he can handle himself."

Marco frowns. "He deals with more than just himself. C'mon Ymir, not even you could do that."

"You're not wrong," She chuckles bitterly, rolling her eyes tiredly. "Two-facedness just comes naturally to me, I don't need to control it."

Marco rolls his eyes, already starting towards the stairs, much to Ymir's distaste. "He's not two-faced, he has dissociative identity disorder. There's a huge difference. You on the other hand, you're a lost cause I'm afraid."

"Still," Ymir chuckles breathlessly. "... Ah, whatever. Go check on the man-child, he's probably hurt himself again."

Marco goes without further word, trying not to think too much about Ymir's words, as Reiner's shouts become unintelligible and broken. She doesn't know the impact words like that have in him. Nor does he want her to. Why make her worry? He's a big guy too, and whilst Reiner can't exactly handle himselr, Marco can. And he will. 

When he approaches the open door of Reiner's apartment, he sees the burly blonde is a sobbing mess on the floor, leant up against the wall. Marco knocks twice before entering the apartment.

"Reiner? It's Marco," He starts, trying his best to remain calm. Reiner can be unpredictable when he gets bad like this.

Reiner slowly lifts his head, and dull amber eyes manage to catch Marco's before looking away. He's ashamed. Clearly, he's himself again; the real him, not the berserk variety of him. 

"Everything okay?" Marco asks, taking a tentative step forward. He's standing just inside the hallway, and he can already see mess of Reiner's apartment. Pots, pans, cutlery, and CD's are all scattered across the room, various scratches and chips adorning the walls and furniture. It's as if there'd been a town riot in his living room. 

Reiner shudders, sitting with his back least against the wall, legs drawn in close. "I was so close, Marco."

Marco takes the way he says his name as a sign that it's okay to come in, and does so, striding over to crouch down beside the blonde man. For someone so physically strong to look so weak, it breaks Marco's already fragile heart; as Reiner lets out a whimper, Marco dares to get a little closer, knee becoming damp as he kneels in some kind of unidentifiable substance. 

"It was three months. I know it... I know it doesn't seem like much but, I'd stayed the same for three whole months," He sighs. "I could tell. I didn't blackout at all, I could remember everything day-to-day as if I were watching it on film. But then-..."

Marco places a reassuring hand across Reiner's broad shoulders, snapping him out of his oncoming disassociation. "It happens, Reiner. Sometimes we just have to move forward, and do better next time. But you did so well. Three months is a big deal. I'm proud of you, Reiner, do you know that?"

Reiner looks up at Marco through heavy lidded eyes, eyes that are clouded with the stinging venom of failure. Marco smiles slightly. "Let's get this place cleaned up."

Reiner shakes his head, standing unsteadily to his feet. "No, no. I'll clean it up," He says firmly. 

Marco doesn't persist in helping Reiner, knowing that once he makes up his mind, there's no two-ways about it - no matter which personality he's adopted. "Okay," He says. "Stay well, Reiner. And don't be afraid to call if you need anything, alright? You know I'm here for you."

Reiner smiles, small and broken. Marco hates how it mirrors his own. "Yeah, I know... you're a good guy Marco. God knows why so many people are afraid of you. You've got a genuine heart of gold."

Marco makes his way back up to his apartment, a swelling feeling of gratitude and bitterness bubbling within him, and seeing Ymir standing in the doorway with her toothbrush sticking out from the side of her lips somehow makes him angrier. But he doesn't dare show it. Marco grimaces, knowing she'd just finished a glass of orange juice, and was now brushing her teeth. And she wanted dinner, too. _What the hell is wrong with her?_

"That was heartwarming, really," She snorts, raising an eyebrow.

Marco shoves past her with a toothy grin, rolling his eyes in an attempt to lift his mood, even if it's to be sarcastic towards his flat mate. "That dark void in your chest finally seen some light, huh?"

She chuckles, closing the front door behind her. "There's enough sunshine coming out of your ass to give me all the Vitamin D I need, thank you very much."

Marco kicks off his shoes in her direction, managing a laugh. "Good thing too, 'cos it's the only D you're ever gonna get."

"Only D I'll ever want!"

 

* * *

 

_He's walking down a narrow path, surrounded by black and white trees in a gritty, poor quality film poster. In one hand, he holds the application forms for high school, and in the other, an envelope filled with cash. He'd taken the money straight out of Tino's bank account, and ran straight down the road towards the school when he and his foster mother made eye contact. Then, the scene changes._

_He's running through the city streets, clutching the forms and money to his chest, being pulled along the deserted streets by Marianna, who's shouting for him to do well, stay safe. Tino pulls at the papers in the form of a man-eating giant, tearing it from Marco's grip and separating him near in half - he wasn't letting go of his future._

_Ymir screams, and Marco tries to reach her, but Tino's gigantic figure holds him down, grinning at him with wild-fire within his eyes._

_He flicks a giant hand at Ymir, sending her flying into a tree. There's a sickening crack as her body makes contact with it, and their foster mother rushes to their aid. "Marianne, don't you dare!" Tino's booming voice shouts, tearing her in half from the waist upwards._

Marco wakes with a gasp, right hand clutching at his heavily heaving chest, feeling the best of his heart through his hot chest.

He can't seem to shake reality, not even in his dreams.

Dust mites dance in the spotlight of the early morning sun, and Marco tries his best to calm his nerves. Ymir's sleeping figure is still, breathing deeply, facing the opposite wall. Marco sighs. _She's okay..._

He hadn't seen Marianne at all yesterday, and ponders sending her a message. _But if Tino saw it first, what would he say? What would he do?_ Marco decides it's best not to send her anything, and make it something to do later in the day; go and see Marianne. Maybe bring her something nice to eat, or some good news.

That's always hard to come by, it would definitely cheer her up.

Marco doesn't bother trying to get back to sleep, or savouring the blankness of his mind for any more time. Pulling on the closest shirt next to him, Marco walks over to the windowsill and open the blinds, staring out at the dull grey skyline, where the city meets the sea, and the sky isn't exactly blue, but not quite as murky as the sea close to the mainlands.

He exits their shared bedroom quietly, adjusting his sweatpants, and pushing the thoughts of his long-gone childhood to the back of his mind; right back where those happy memories belong, amongst other memories of nicer, simpler times.

He doesn't bother to leave a note on the kitchen bench, simply sliding his feet into a pair of sneakers he hopes are his, and heading out the front door, house key and wallet in hand.

It isn't unusual for Marco to eat breakfast at the diner down the road, knowing Ymir is capable of preparing her own breakfast (or lunch, depending on when she decides to wake). Today, he isn't going to break that habit, no matter how much his mind reminds him of the pain and suffering that is sure to come with the hours ahead.

He passes by a fuming air-vent, exiting the apartment building through the back entrance, and his dream reappears at the forefront of his mind. His half torn body, guts strewn out across the pavement; Ymir's head hanging limply by her side, lifeless eyes staring into an abyss of nothing; Marianne, torn apart between the legs and hoisted high into the air by Tino's gigantic hands.

Marco exhales hot air into the frosty mornings atmosphere. Tino really does control them all, no matter how he tries to look at it. It seems he also controls a vast majority of Trost too, considering the name Marco's made for himself simply by being associated with him.

_'I'm Marco,' He'd say, hoping to move on with introductions._

_'B-Bodt?' They'd stutter, staring at him wide-eyed. 'Tino's boy?'_

_And he couldn't disagree. 'Unfortunately,' He'd sigh, and they would recoil in fear, leaving him to go about his business without interference, but settle a heavy weight atop his shoulders._

What good was a name if it's very syllables churned the stomachs of hundreds of people? No good at all. Marco preferred to do his deeds without the drop of a name, or shortening it to Marc, when need be.

Tino Petruzali fostered two children twenty one years ago; Marco, who was two at the time, and Ymir, who was three. Now, it seems that Tino believes they owe him their lives. Marco and Ymir act more as henchmen than foster children, and until Tino says they have fulfilled their debt, they can't leave.

They can try, of course, but neither of them particularly want to die at twenty three and twenty four. Let alone be killed by mobster Tino Petruzali, who is a convicted criminal, yet still manages to escape the clutches of the incompetent police force of Trost.

Marco holds his breath to pass by the row of smokers out the front of the building, throwing a wave in Annie's direction. She barely lifts her eyes from her phone screen, as per usual, but gestures a subtle greeting.

He pulls at his sweatpants, tying the drawstrings together at the traffic lights to keep them from falling down. He'd made the mistake of buying a pair two sizes bigger, taking them from a shelf that displayed the sizes too far away from him to be able to read.

An honest mistake, really. _Anyone could have done it_ , he tells himself.

Marco arrives at the glass doors of Samuel's, a small diner located far away from the prying eyes of civilians. So far away, in fact, that he doesn't know the actual name of the place. It's simply Samuel's, because he owns it. Or at least, he will when his father passes away, he's told him.

The small bell above the door rings, and only a few people glance up to see who came in. Upon instinct, he goes to cover his face, but stops short of taking drastic measures. He doesn't have to be a different person here. He doesn't have to cover his face. He can be him - everyone here can be themselves. He has nothing to fear. Marco smiles at some of the patrons, and heads straight to the table in the far back corner, nearly always reserved for him in the mornings he chooses to show.

The owner, Samuel Linke-Jackson, immediately recognises Marco's haircut from above the counter, and makes his way over to the table. "Good morning, Marco," He says cheerfully, pulling out his notepad. "Here for the usual?"

Marco nods with a smile, fidgeting with the pepper shaker positioned in the centre of the table. "Yeah, thanks Sam," He says. "Could I get a coffee to go when I'm done, too?"

Samuel nods, jotting down the order on a faded-yellow notepad, a beaming smile plastered on his face. "Sure thing, I'll add it to your tab. Anything else?"

Marco shakes his head. "No, thank you."

Samuel takes one last glance at Marco before returning to the kitchen, making the freckled Italian smile. He'd never act upon it, Marco knows this much, but Samuel's obvious crush on him never ceased to make him smile. Who would've thought that he could have his own coffee shop romance? Or diner romance, more like. But Marco didn't need to think any further than that. He couldn't have a coffee-diner shop romance, ever, but during these mornings, he could at least pretend.

He enjoyed these mornings. The ones where he wasn't yet requested for any dirty work, and his hands were unstained, and life felt normal. Marco could never use the word normal without laughing, but in the morning, he could pretend to be normal.

Turning his attention to the T.V fitted on the wall to the right of him, he's captivated by yet another news broadcast about criminal activity in West Trost.

_'-West Trost experienced two high rise murders late last night, when 74 year old woman Joan Carter, who had a past affiliation with a local gang, and 23 year old Franz Kefka, affiliated with the same gang, were found dead on the fifth story of an apartment building in-'_

A staff member changes the channel, sighing and shaking their heads at the news. "They still haven't caught those guys? It's obvious they're a part of Tino's crew. How are the police so stupid, not to even bother looking in the most obvious place?"

Marco grins slightly. _They're all starting just starting to realise that?_ Marco couldn't help but sigh in relief at the news, stretching his arms high above his head. _They're dead set on blaming Titan Co. for all the devastation, Tino will be fine._ Marco's grin slowly fades. _Why does he even need me anymore? Even he knows he's safe. Why can't he just let me go?_

"One toasted ham and cheese," Samuel says, bringing Marco out of his daze. "Brought you a water too, it's on the house."

Marco smiles again. "Oh, thank you," He chuckles. "Are you sure it's free? You can always add it to my tab-"

Samuel shakes his head. "It's just water, and Trost gets plenty of it." He laughs coyly. "Enjoy the food."

"Always do," Marco calls out, as Samuel disappears once again into the kitchen. He stabs at his breakfast with the polished knife and fork, stuffing the toasted sandwich into his mouth with fervour. The sandwiches here were the best he'd ever tasted.

Marco quickly finishes his meal, receiving a brief and urgent text from Ymir, telling him to hurry and get back home, because Tino was on his way over. What Tino wanted with the two of them on a Saturday morning was beyond him, but he made haste in calling for his coffee and replying to Ymir's text.

 **To: Ymir  
9:54am**  
On my way, just waiting for a coffee. His he seriously putting us on another job?

Tino never really cared for them, Marco has come to realise. He only wanted henchman who would do his dirty work without repayment - a place to sleep and access to all kinds of money and drugs was all they needed, right?

 **From: Ymir  
9:55am**  
who knows. i sure as hell cant be fucked to go out again, im supposed to be meeting historia today. if i back out again shes sure to leave me.

Marco smiles wistfully at the text, unsure of how to reply. Historia probably would leave Ymir if she couldn't go on this date with her. They'd been planning it for months now, and Ymir had already cancelled three times so far...

He passes directly by the cashier's register to say farewell to Samuel, who waves enthusiastically as Marco leaves the restaurant. He can't help but chuckle under his breath at Samuel's naivety.

He'd leave too, if he ever found out. Everyone else did.

Marco rakes a shaky hand through his hair and takes the backstreets back to his and Ymir's apartment. Just the thought that Tinto would be there makes his stomach churn uncomfortably, threatening to bring up his breakfast.He takes a nervous sip of his coffee, then brings his steps to a jog, attempting to sweat out some of the nerves within him.

Tino just knows when his henchmen are nervous, and it's never a good outcome for the ones he can see right through. Of course, Marco is his _'beautiful son_ ,' and usually gets off easy. But something must be up if he's contacting him and Ymir on their first day off in months.

Unless he simply enjoys tormenting them, which isn't exactly a far call from the truth.

Reiner passes him at the stairs, managing a 'Good morning,' just in earshot of Marco's passing figure. "Morning, Reiner!" He calls back, nearly up the second flight of stairs. He'd've taken the elevator, but it's unpredictable, and he doesn't want Tino to take his head on a silver platter quite yet.

Ymir's at their front door before he can even knock, puffing figure already alerting her to his arrival. "Fuckin' finally," She breathes. "Tino's already here - and you look like a slob. He's gonna tear your throat out."

"I know, I know," Marco puffs, entering the doorway. He gestures to the coffee in his hand, "I haven't had much, only a sip. Should I offer it to him?"

Ymir snatches it from Marco's grasp, two paces ahead of him. "Marco brought you a coffee, Papá Tino," She says, already attempting to sway him with her minimal Italian. She was born in Slovenia, yet Tino still criticised her for not knowing any Italian - let alone any English, in their early days.

"Grazie bambino," He sighs, taking it with shaky hands. "Where is _he_?"

Marco enters the room swiftly, having relieved himself of his nerves as Ymir spoke to Tino. If she took control, Tino wouldn't do anything too bad, Marco tells himself. "Yes, Papá Tino."

Marco struggles to keep a serious demeanour as he says that, as the English translation is something of a joke. Tino had chided them for so many years about learning to speak English in an English speaking country, yet he wanted them to refer to him as 'Dad Tino'?

"As I'm sure you're aware," Tino starts, setting his coffee down beside him, as Marco and Ymir take a seat on the opposite couch. "We have made the news."

Marco nods knowingly, and Ymir goes along with it, clearly not having watched the news this morning. Tino smiles. "I'd like to say that I am quite proud of you both. You've shown to me what true loyalty to your father and your trade can do, and I'd like to thank you."

Marco and Ymir exchange brief glances. _Thank us_? They'd never question it aloud, but that didn't stop their minds from reeling. "Being apart of the Underground service takes a lot of stomach, which I believe you both have," Tino says, standing to look out at the city from the grungy glass doors leading onto the rickety balcony. "And so, I'd like to offer you both a high paying proposition."

 

* * *

 

The bar filled with people as fast as Marco's stomach filled with nerves, glancing towards the exit sign in a silent plea to let him escape the hell-hole he'd accepted.

 _Accepted, or forced?_ We're Ymir words, when he'd tried to explain to her why they took the job, although both of their hearts said no. He'd never thought about it that way, but nothing could have stopped his greed at the promise of money.

And he can already see it. Young women and men, middle aged people of high class establishment, even the elderly, involved in the intricate webbing of drug cartels in the Underground. How they became involved, he may never know, but seeing so many familiar faces involving themselves in such a dangerous game made him sick to the stomach.

Marco had seen so many of his friends become reliant on the drugs he dealt them; so many young lives taken, by his own hand. He'd been the one to sell those drugs, for only a few hundred from them, and maybe a few hundred from Tino.  
He wanted validation from his foster father, love from his foster mother, and acceptance into some form of society - even if it was one as dangerous as the Underground.

One wrong move could get you arrested, and one could get you killed. Every step had to be tactfully thought out and acted upon with precision. And where did Marco fit into all of this? Drug dealings, drug exchange, and disposing of anyone Tino deemed unfit to work for him, or buy from him. Sometimes, just people he didn't like, other times, his competition.

No one was safe from the _'Big Guys_ ' invoiced with the working of the Underground. Not even the people who worked for them. The death toll was always high, and the police had stopped involving themselves with drug cartels that didn't directly affect their work.

There were too many for Marco to count; the numbers of men and women he had taken from the earth, simply because Tinto had requested it. And for what, acceptance? Validation? Passion for his trade? No. He did it all for a quick buck and a place to belong.

Sometimes, Marco hated himself. Others, he wished he would just fuck something up to the point where Tinto would have him disposed of.

A small group of youth approach the bar, all varying ages, heights and ethnicities, and Marco's throat tightens. This is it, he tells himself. I'm about to ruin six more lives to please someone who doesn't even appreciate my existence, unless I'm doing something for him.

The oldest looking one, a scarily thin, blonde male, hands $50 cash to Marco, and orders a round of vodka shots. He hands Marco his I.D, and Marco reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. As he hands back the kids' obviously fake I.D, he also hands with it two small packages.

He watches the six of them take their shots and leave, and his heart sinks in his chest. He'd just dealt crack to a bunch of teenagers.

Tino appears behind him and claps him on the back. "Amazing what the youth of today will do, just for a little high," He chuckles. "Come, finish up a another round of drinks and join us in the back for a hit, son."

He's guilty of so much. He's indirectly harmed so many people, inclusive of himself and Ymir, yet he doesn't even consider saying no. He's hurt so many, killed so many, altered the futures of so many innocent souls; yet, he removes his apron, tells the other bartender that he's off for the night, and follows his foster father to the confines of the back room, hidden from the eyes of the public.

Ymir is already there, snorting a line of cocaine from the misused pool table. Marco's heart starts to beat faster, his mind telling him to hurry up and join her. He's missed the high that cocaine brings. It helps him forget who he is and what he does. Marco may never rule the world, but one line of coke damn well makes him feel like it.

But one line of coke was enough to ruin his concrete sanity so many years ago. Would he dare do it again, knowing full well that fifteen minutes of feeling on top of the world, isn't worth fifteen days of shaking, crying, and screaming bloody murder at figures that really aren't out to get him - that really aren't there at all.

"Marco, thought you'd never get back here!" Ymir shouts, bounding up to him with the remnants of white power on her upper lip. "Ya wanna join me? It's crazy where I am right now. No more bullshit, I just feel- fine..."

He wants to. God, does he want to. But those nightmares... They're too frequent to be just some natural occurrence. He knows what excessive use of cocaine can do. He's seen it. He's caused it. He's _lived_ it.

So why doesn't he just leave?

Marco follows Ymir and sits behind her, even passes Tino a bag filled with the powder, but he remains clean. Two years ago, he'd ended up in hospital from this stuff. He'd been forced out, because they didn't want to deal with 'Marco Bodt, Tino's Boy,' and had to come down from the high on his own.

Sure, he loved it. Then he saw too much.

He couldn't sleep, he couldn't sit still, and he couldn't stop seeing them. Huge, towering giants took the shapes from the sky-high buildings of Trost. When he tried to get away from them, he nearly fell from the window. If it wasn't for Bertholdt, he probably would have died that night.

Marco politely declines offers made to him, knowing that the people he doesn't know will only ask once. If they asked again, he couldn't very well blow their brains out. They've all been given that warning.

Marco probably wouldn't, but Tino definitely would love if he did.

As the bar begins to close, a few strippers knock on the door to say goodbye. Marco is the only one sober and sane enough to say goodbye, so he leaves the back room and leads them to the back entrance - the safest place to leave at this time of night.

They thank him, hugging him goodbye, and he begins to walk back inside to collect Ymir. "Do you want a little ruff and tumble tonight, Mr Bodt?" One of the girls, Hannah, offers, pursing her lips and pushing her bum out just a little further.

Marco shakes his head. "No thanks, not tonight. Maybe next time you're on? I have to get Ymir home."

The girl chuckles, nodding. "Sure thing. You're too nice a person to be working for Tino, Marco. You need to get out of here before you're blood-bound to him."

Marco laughs, waving to her as she walks back to her car. Why do they have to say things like that? He has too much remorse for his line of work as it is; why do they insist on his kindness? He's not kind, he's heartless. He's a cold-blooded killer, who ruthlessly took the lives of-... Why did it matter anyway? Marco glances back once more, hearing heavy drunken footsteps leaving the bar, greeting the women with horrid slurs.

He's always liked Hannah, even if she did have some sort of affiliation with Franz Kefka. _Was she the undercover spy Tino was talking about_? Marco wouldn't ever ask her. She was too kind to him. Marco makes his way back into the back room, and takes Ymir as best he can to the bus stop. It'd be too hard to walk her home in her current state, laughing at everything they pass, including herself.

As Marco pays the bus fair and finds Ymir a seat towards the back, he sits beside her, letting her lean against him. She's starting to get tired, but her mouth continues to jabber at a fast pace, unable to form coherent words. The bus starts to move, and when Marco looks out the window, he swears he sees the tawny-eyed boy from the alleyway, making his way down the street with a small plastic bag.

_Jean..._


	4. Peppermint Winter (Bittersweet)

 

 

 

> " _The trust of the innocent is the liars most useful tool_." - **Stephen King**

 

The soft chiming of a distant corner choir sends a wave of nostalgia throughout the mess hall, adding to the bright fairy lights and shining tinsel thrown over banisters and wooden chairs. Christmas music plays from an old radio, muffled by the sounds of people of all ages, mostly teenagers and young adults with no real place to go, talking idly to each other as they enjoy their hot meals and lukewarm eggnog. The festive ambience allows people to forget their tribulations, instead engaging in meaningful and lighthearted conversations with people from all walks of life.

It's not every day they get to share a meal together, after all. Christmas is simply the one time they can come together and appreciate their home away from home or street corner, without feeling guilty or resentful.

Eren nudges Jean's shoulder, asking him to pass the gravy with a large grin on his face. Jean complies, happy to see that for once in his damn life Eren is genuinely smiling; genuinely enjoying himself, without having to give away another cut of dignity. Even if he himself isn't, Jean loves it when Eren is genuinely happy.

It's like even if Christmas hadn't made its way to their forgotten side of the world, it would still feel like it as long as Jean got to see Eren smile.

Jean's heart swells with seasonal gratitude as people he hadn't spoken to in years chose to sit beside him and talk. He doesn't say much, which isn't unusual, but he savours every word they speak to him. Hell, they could tell him the gravy he made was shit, but he would still savour the fact that they took the time and effort to direct their words to his face.

Nanaba passes around another tray of vegetables and meats, and everyone thanks her with a grateful smile, cheerfully digging in to the fresh food served. Whilst the attention is momentarily off of him, Eren grasps Jean's attention once more, tapping him on the shoulder with that same cheesy smile plastered on his face. "Hey, Jean."

Jean hums through a mouthful of chicken, leaving his conversation with an older homeless lady, and turning to Eren. "Hm?"

He tenses slightly as Eren leans in, distracted by the moustache of eggnog on Eren's scruffy stubble. "Hurry up and finish, I've got something better we should be doing." Jean's mind reals at the statement, especially as Eren winks at him before returning to the conversation across the table between himself and a girl called Annie.

He swallows, hurriedly attempting to shove the rest of his Christmas dinner down his gullet. What could he possibly mean? There are so many possibilities... Eren wouldn't really have sex with Jean as a Christmas present... _Would he?_ Suddenly, his appetite is lost, and Jean's stomach knots with the thought that maybe he's finally done waiting.

_It's not like I would say no, I mean, I wouldn't. But I haven't even bought his present yet, I still have to pick it up... Geez. Am I gonna miss out on sex with Eren because I have to pick up his gift tonight? I shouldn't have even thought I could sneak out without anybody noticing. And if Nanaba saw me after not paying my rent because of this..._

_No, I'm being selfish now. I'm picking up Eren's gift because it's something that he needs. He doesn't need sex, he only ever wants it. But he needs a jacket. And I sure as hell am not giving up my pay for him to not actually get the gift._

Whilst he's lost in thought, Eren takes Jean's plate and cutlery to the kitchen, telling Jean he'll meet him up in their bedroom when he's cleaned up. Jean's heart catches in his throat, but he complies nonetheless. He sends his love to the other patrons of the room, either with a kiss on the cheek or a hug or a smile, before quickly striding across the dining room and up the large staircase to their room.

Shortly after Jean takes a seat on the edge of his bed, rigid with nerves, Eren walks in with a skip in his step. He closes the door behind him, and as he and Jean meet eyes, he raises an eyebrow. "You look pale. Nervous about something?" He chides, making Jean blush as he moves to sit beside him.

"N-No. What should I be nervous about?"

Eren shrugs. "I don't know. Anyway, I've got you a little somethin' somethin' for Kissmyarse- Sorry, Christmas. Damn autocorrecting mouth." He's nervous too, Jean notes, but Eren continues. "Since its Christmas and all, I thought I'd put some meaning into my gift, unlike your birthday gifts-"

"So it's not duct tape and goggly eyes?" Jean questions, earning a playful hit on the shoulder, as his eyes briefly dart to the scarily demonic tape structure in their desk.

"No, it's not goggly eyes. Or duct tape." Eren walks across the room to pull two gifts from beneath his pillow, both wrapped neatly in golden wrapping paper. "I, um. I got help from the store to wrap one, but I did the other myself... Can you tell?"

Why is Eren so nervous? It's only gift giving. Jean shakes his head, beaming from ear to ear as Eren places the gifts one at a time in his hands. "Not at all."

Eren swallows. "Well... Go on, then. Open them."

Jean does. He takes the first one, heavier than the other, and carefully removes the tape. He knows Eren usually likes to get this part over and done with, but Jean prefers to savour it.

It's not often he gets heartfelt gifts. Will he even know how to react?

It's a small white box beneath the paper, containing a small bottle of cologne. Eren scratches at his hair nervously. "It's um- It's not much, and it was cheap, so I don't know if you'll like it but... Yeah."

Jean places it beside him carefully, unwilling to open his mouth or lock eyes with Eren in case he cries or tries to kiss him. At this stage, he may just do both.

He unwraps the second gift with a little more fervour, but savours the moment all the same. Inside the wrapping paper is a pair of dark red knitted gloves.  
Eren reaches forward when Jean doesn't speak, taking a glove in one hand and Jean's hand in the other. "H-Here, see if they fit. I got them in my size, so they might have to be exchanged for a bigger size. I've got the receipt and everything, so.."

They're a little short, but they're perfect.

Just like Eren.

Once both the gloves are on his hands, Jean leans forward and engulfs Eren in a heartfelt embrace. Eren chuckles into his shoulder, fingers ever-so-slightly kneading at Jean's back in a fickle attempt to draw him closer.

"Thank you, Eren," Jean sighs, closing his eyes to completely engage in the moment he had waited for so long to arise. He'd been given plenty of opportunities to show Eren physical love, but never quite as tender, nor in such a good state of mind.

When Eren offered to sleep with Jean before, he'd always been either intoxicated, conflicted with his emotions, or on hard drugs. To Jean's knowledge, he wasn't any of these in this moment, and so he knew that if anything were to happen, he wouldn't decline this time.

He trusts Eren, he has to remember that. Eren can be trusted. He is safe.

Eren is his safety.

"You know... I, um, don't really know how to say this but..." Eren cuts himself short, and shakes his head, simply shrugging his shoulders and pulling away from Jean. "It's nothing, don't worry about it. Hey, wanna catch some dessert in the mall? It's open late tonight with sales and stuff."

Jean nods his head, becoming aware of the burning and heaviness in the back pocket of his jeans, where his wallet is itching to be emptied. Eren's coat.

"Yeah, sure."

"We should go through the fire escape," Eren suggests, already standing on his feet and grabbing his wallet from the desk. "I haven't payed rent yet, and Nanaba's been looking at me funny all night. It's kinda unnerving."

Jean chuckles lightly, and a silent agreement forms between them. He hasn't payed his rent either; if Eren was getting looked at, Jean was having holes burnt into the side of his head.

As Eren opens his wallet to check his cash balance, Jean catches sight of a pocket-sized picture of Eren and his father. It looks to be from around when Eren was a lot younger, prepubescent maybe, and Jean remembers that Eren had gone to see his father two days ago.

Had he mentioned anything? Jean couldn't remember. Should he ask? Would Eren want that? He hasn't seemed down or particularly moody...

Jean swallows as Eren closes his wallet, smiling brightly when he catches Jean's gaze. "Don't tell me you're chickening out, Jean. We used to do this all the time!" Eren exclaims, stepping closer to the window and unhinging it.

"No, no. That's not it." Jean's voice catches in his throat, knowing he can't turn back now. Eren always has this intuition when people don't say what they were planning to; he can see right through liars as if he's looking through glass.

"What is it, then?" Eren asks, lowering an eyebrow in confusion.

Jean takes a breath and asks, "How, um... How did it go with your dad?"

He's prepares for a fight, or a mood swing, or a string of curse words to fill in the silent atmosphere and inevitably cancel their plans to go out. He prepares to lose Eren's friendship for days, weeks, even months, in the sparing moments that come between the question and the answer.

Then, Eren smiles. "It was good."

He's out of the window before Jean can say anything else, let alone react. Does he really mean that? Jean follows after him, patting down his backside one last time to check for his phone and his wallet. It's all there. Someone whistles from below, and that's his go-ahead signal to scale the building.

Strong, shaking hands grip the window, propelling his body weight out of it. Jean finds steady footing and initiates his descent; one foot, one hand, repeat. He keeps his hands firm around the pipe on the wall, keeping his body steady as his feet find safety in the bricks that don't quite sit in the wall correctly; they make good foot-holds.

"C'mon, Jean!" Eren calls, smiling up at him. Jean catches him saying, "Don't shit yourself," and tries his best not to retort until Eren is within earshot. Once both feet are on the ground, they walk side by side down the empty street, arms crossed in front of their chests to help keep out the cold.

It's not far from Maria's to the city centre, but the vicious bite of the winter air makes the journey far less enjoyable than it usually is. With the occasional drunk or inebriated person shouting at them, Eren and Jean walk closer to each other and hurry along.

They've never been comfortable in public when they're not on the job as it is, but something about the air around them is different. Tension, words left unsaid; the prospect of going into the New Year without any closure of the things they haven't yet discussed - the things they're too scared to discuss.

"So, where are we headed?" Jean asks, breaking the silence between them that makes his nerves stand on end. He hates silence. It makes way for feelings of guilt and anxiety, and at any time leaves space for questions or comments that could lead to further suffering.

Was he overthinking silence? Of course, and he knew that. But old habits die hard, and preventing silence falling between him and another person was something Jean had grown accustomed to from an early age. A camping mechanism, of sorts, that he'd rather get into trouble for than stop doing.

Eren shrugs, hands deep in his pockets, mind so far away from the present that he hadn't even noticed they'd already crossed the lights. "Don't know. We're just... Going, I guess."

Going, huh. Isn't that what they always do? Just go? They've been going without plans all of their life, and where has it landed them? No where. Just going took them to a youth hostel, took away their lives, and handed them their own asses countless times. Yet, Eren still wants to just go?

Jean hums in acknowledgement, unsure of what actions to take next. What more could he say? It's not like Eren doesn't enjoy silence. Jean knows he could speak all day if he wanted to, if he had to, but he also knows that Eren enjoys silence just as much as they rest of the world.

The rest of the world minus Jean, it seems.

Finally, Eren decides that they stop at the park for a while and sit beside the fountain. Jean doesn't disagree, and follows Eren close behind until they can sit side by side in the damp surface of the marble surrounding the large fountain.

It's a marble structure that consists of three women, all baring crowns and various gifts. They're supposedly the three sisters that founded Trost, along with the Royal Reiss family a few hundred years ago. It's said that the sisters - Maria, Rose, and Sina - were killed by the Reiss family after they had successfully cultivated baron land and brought in tourism. Maria, the eldest, owned St. Maria's before it became what it is today.

Eren sighs, looking back at the three dancing sisters in various poses, smiling out at the city. "I 'spose we owe a lot to those ladies, huh."

Jean follows his gaze, staring straight into the empty eyes of Maria. "What do you mean?" He asks, a little unsettled.

"Without them, we wouldn't have a place to sit right now," He chuckles. "And without her, we wouldn't have anywhere to live, either." Eren's gesturing to Maria, the female statue on the far left, holding a vase in her hand that releases water into the fountain.

"Mm... I guess you're right."

The two of them silently agree to sit for a while without speaking. Does it make Jean's throat close uncomfortably? Of course. But he can live with it. After all, he's not in danger in any way. Staying silent won't cause him any harm; it's just as Eren has told him a hundred times before.

Silence won't kill him.

And silence won't kill Eren, either. He's well aware that, whilst his hypersexuality can deter his sense of self, he knows both how to hold and conversation and how to enjoy the company of others in silence. As Jean would tell him, he's naturally a people person.

Does he believe him? Not all the time. But having someone tell him he's worth more than just the pleasure he can provide is something he tries to remember.

"You don't have to dwell on it." Eren's voice visibly startles Jean, making him jump slightly. His jeans become a little more damp from the surrounding water; he runs a hand through his unkempt hair.

"Dwell on what?" Jean asks, once his composure is regained.

Eren shrugs. "Whatever you're thinking about. We think too much, let's just sit and not think for a change."

And so they do, much to Jean's discomfort. He lets Eren have his moment of silence, and tries his best to enjoy the moment too. Trying to rid his mind of unhelpful thoughts, Jean tunes into the sound of the water feature; a dog barks in the distance, a jazz piano tune sounds dully from within the interior of the shopping complex.

Eren sighs beside him and shuffles closer, setting his hand atop Jean's. The movement isn't unusual, but not expected given the atmosphere. Eren usually doesn't like to be intimate in any way with Jean in public, out of fear they one of his clients will see and become jealous or abusive. But he doesn't seem to mind in the moment.

Eren swallows, hesitantly stroking Jean's fingers with his own. "I, uh, wasn't going to tell you but I-... A few days ago, I spent."

Jean tries not to let his shock show. His stomach empties all at once, and he fears the worst for his closest companion. "Oh." He has to ask carefully, causally, like it's no big deal if he did, even though it is a huge deal. "Did you use?"

Eren shakes his head. "Wanted to. 'S hidden in my pillow case back at Maria's. I didn't want Nanaba finding it."

Or you. Jean knows there's a two word addition to Eren's confession, but he doesn't press for it. He removes his glove-clad hand from beneath Eren's in an instant, and locks their fingers together at once. "I'm very proud of you, Eren. Is that why you wanted to take a walk?"

He nods. "Mm. Could you maybe get rid of it sometime? Without me knowing? I just-... I don't trust myself with it. No matter what I tell myself, there's no way I can stay clean another minute with that shit at my disposal."

He wants to remain clean. For himself? Or for Jean? It didn't matter. Those words were all that Jean needed to hear. He nods. "Of course, I'll do it later when I go out."

Eren lets out a soft sigh from his nose; relief, pain, fear. Each emotion escapes him as those words tumble from Jean's mouth, and although it pains his addictive nature, it relieves a part of him far younger than his years. "...Thank you."

As the early morning atmosphere falls between them once more, both Jean and Eren are filled with a numbing sense of calm. Honesty tends to do that to them; when something not intended to be shared is, the trust between them grows just a touch stronger.

Jean draws in a sharp breath, unbeknownst to him alerting Eren. "Do you mind if I ask-"

"Four months," Eren cuts in, making his statement plain and simple; admitting how long he's been clean comes as easy as breathing. It's staying clean for any amount of time that brings the unbearable construction to his chest. "I haven't... Haven't used in four months."

Jean's smile is bittersweet. "I'm glad to hear that."

Eren hums. "I'd be real nice right now, I've gotta be honest."

Jean stands immediately, taking Eren's hand in his, and they gain to walk. He doesn't want to hear it. He knows he should listen to Eren, let him voice his thoughts instead of acting upon them, but he just can't. It's a selfish act, that he knows, but every uttering of the words 'heroin' or 'cocaine' drives a nail deep into his self-constructed coffin.

A simple phrase like 'I used' turns his gut to mush, and Jean's little ticks begin to act up again. They're nervous, and self-driven, but it's how he copes. It's better to fiddle with his sleeves or pick at his skin than to act on impulse and do something stupid.

Knowing how Eren gets, knowing how Armin gets, seeing how he got; warning sign upon warning sign. Jean knows it's not worth it.

Eren clears his throat, retuning Jeans grip with his fingers. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"'S okay," Jean mumbles, shivering against the cold. "Don't worry about it."

They walk into the centre of the mall now, hand in hand, and search for any store still open that sells dessert. Eren complains about the cold air rushing up his ass, bringing a smile to Jean's distant expression, and soon enough they find a place.

It's a small sweet shop, 'Petra's Patisserie,' and it's inviting aroma guides them in from across the other side of the walkway.

"I hope it's no expensive," Eren comments as he and Jean release each others' hands and step inside. Jean notes the way Eren's eyes light up at the varied of baked and boiled goods, and knows this is his chance to flee.

"Here." Jean hands Eren a ten dollar note, much to the brunette's surprise. "I'm just going up a little ways. Spend it all on whatever you like, it's my treat."

"Really?" Eren's surprise really is evident now, and Jean feels as though he's just given his last ten dollars to a small child.

"Really," He confirms. Eren's bouncing away at the counter before Jean has a chance to say anymore, and takes his leave quickly. He'd already payed for the coat with the last of his money (that single ten dollar note aside), and easily makes his way to the clothing store.

It's virtually empty, save for a singular cashier and two teenagers grinding up against the wall in an aisle to the left. Jean pointedly ignores them.

"Excuse me." Jean grabs the employees attention with a weak, throaty cough, and he steps up immediately. "S-Sorry, I had a coat here to pick up?"

"Kirschtein?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Jean provides the receipt, and leaves just as quickly as he entered, unable to help the energetic feeling within his stomach. It flutters with each step, and when he spots Eren sitting outside of the sweet store with a plastic bag seemingly loaded, his breath catches nervously in his throat.

"Finally, you took for-fucking-ever," Eren sighs, standing to meet him halfway. His eyes fall on the bag in Jean's hands, but he doesn't ask about it, simply lifting his own bag of sweets to eye level. "Should we head back? We've got a long, food-coma induced night ahead of us."

Jean chuckles lightly. "Yeah, sure. But first, I have something for you."

Eren swallows, and sits down as quickly as he's stood. "What is it?"

Jean takes up the seat beside him and propels the paper bag into Eren's unsuspecting arms. "It's your Christmas gift. I've, uh, been saving up for a while now for it."

One glance at Eren's sparkling eyes as he inspects the thick coat has Jean stammering for an explanation, unable to control his nerves. "Y-You always complain about the cold so- so I got you this. It'll double as a- as a birthday present t-too, I hope you don't mind, but uh-"

"Jean." Eren's voice is closer now, as is Eren, almost nose to nose with Jean's anxious figure. "I fucking love it!"

Eren stands and lifts Jean into the air by his waist, causing the talker boy to cry out in embarrassment. "E-Eren! Put me down!"

He does, albeit slowly, then pulls Jean into a bone-crushing bear hug. "Thank you, Jean. You're the greatest friend a person could ever wish for... I'm sorry I hated you for so long."

Jean's electric mood sways, beginning to dim once again. "Y-You're welcome... I'm sorry for hating you too."

The once festive and cheerful mood dissipates, and the two of them unanimously decide to head back to St Maria's. As Eren states, it's a lot easier to climb down the fire escape than it is to climb up it; now with the added bags, they're in for a hell of a climb.

- **x** -

Waking up the next morning is harder than usual. With the heating out in the whole building and frost glazing the cracked glass of their dusty window, Jean's muscles are stiff and painful. The pitiful window in question has been fixed with masking tape so many times it's no wonder the bitter cold still manages to get past the awful handiwork.

Eren's awful handiwork, that is. And speaking of Eren's awful handiwork, the combined head and stomach ache Jean's struggling against is entirely his fault too.

When they arrived back at St Maria's around twelve in the morning, Eren insisted they celebrate Christmas by eating a few of the sweets he'd bought. And by a few, Eren really meant all if not most of them.

Admittedly, it was a good decision at the time. Neither of them could afford the luxury of sweets or Christmas gifts usually, so they were deserving of a celebration. After all, they'd both managed to make it to Christmas with little insult to injury, which was a huge step for the two.

But currently, none of that mattered to Jean. What mattered most, was getting eight feet across the room to the bathroom so Jean could throw up last nights mistakes with dignity. He'd never eaten that much in one go before. As he struggles to sit up, against the complaints of his nauseous stomach and hazy mind, he sees that Eren is both already awake and completely unfazed by their binge out.

"You look like shit," He comments, munching away on some leftover black-current pastilles. They're his favourite, but just the thought of their sugary coat sends a fresh wave of sick through Jean's spine. "Want some? Sugar might be good for you."

Those words send Jean's stomach into a clenched mess, and he stumbled his way ungracefully into the bathroom, feeling bitter bile rising in the column of his throat; just in time too, as he projectile vomits into the waiting porcelain holy grail.

Amidst his wrenching and self-loathing, Jean hears Eren snort. "Maybe not then."

"S-Shut up," Jean mumbles, weakly, settling his forehead on the edge of the bowl. "We're gonna need some cleanin' stuff..."

Eren appears in the doorframe to the bathroom, still chewing away, completely unfazed by the sight and smell before him. "No way. If Nanaba finds out we were gone last night, we're fucked. Either you squirt and scrub that shit or I'll do it." Jean swallows tentatively, ignoring Eren's words, his eyes watering. Eren rolls his eyes. "I'll do it, then, you piss-baby. Wipe your mouth, no ones gonna want a blow on the go from that mug."

Jean splutters. "Eren!"

Eren laughs heartily as Jean hurls a roll of toilet paper pitifully towards him, missing him entirely. "You're a funny one, Kirschtein. Don't ever change," He says, wistfully. "You sure you don't want one though?"

Another, heavier object is thrown with a little more accuracy, and Eren makes a snide comment that Jean will have to fix the window this time.

 

* * *

 

Jean and Eren part ways at the train station, Eren heading towards the slum area of Trost, and Jean heading into the city centre. Neither of them say parting words, never once exchanging goodbyes; goodbye means forever, and they would rather not have the thought of loosing one another in their minds when they have to work.

 _Work_. That word sounds so bitter to Jean. How could anyone call this work? It's suffering, and pain, and a hindrance to his life.

If he'd known this was where he'd end up in life, Jean would have ended it when he had the chance... A car horn honks Jean from his mind, shouting profanities at him as he strides quickly across the street. He'd almost been run over, but he was too busy thinking about why he hadn't taken his own life to care. How ironic.

Some people stare at him, maybe catching a glimpse of the maniac that lives within his dull, colourless mind. If it bothers him, he doesn't outwardly show it; Jean always has a look of distaste about him, no one would know whether he was actually angry or content with life if they tried.

Did he really like being like that though? He couldn't decide, making a right down the bustling streets. Jean had built walls around him many years ago, and since their conception, they've only grown stronger, taller. And as they've strengthened, Jean's retreated into himself so far that they are the only source of protection he has. What they're protecting now, he doesn't know, but he'll be damned if those walls will ever, ever come down.

"Jean?"

The ash blonde glances upwards from the ground, his scowl dissipating briefly as he searches for the source of the voice. It sounds from behind him, just a little way to the left.

"Sorry, you probably don't remember me," Chuckles the tanned, freckles brunette. He's wearing a dark apron, tied tightly around his toned body, contrasting to his blue plaid button down and dark jeans. "I'm Marco, from Tino- Ah, the bar."

He couldn't misplace that broken Italian accent anywhere. "Uh-... Marco?" But he feigned ignorance anyway; too nervous, too nauseous. It's the guy who'd rescued him from that man weeks prior. Franz, or something. Jean couldn't remember; he'd been too caught up in the feeling of having someone he didn't know show genuine kindness to him. Who even did that in Trost, anyway? People with a death wish, that's who.

"Yes! Sorry, I shouldn't expect you to remember me." He smiles, stepping closer to Jean as the latter takes a tentative step back. "How have you been? It's nice to see you out again after-"

"Stop." Jean's harsh tone cuts Marco off immediately, and he looks a little taken aback, though unsurprised. Jean smoothes a hand through his hair nervously, swallowing the lump in his throat. "You don't need to bring that up. It's fine, it's over, that's it. Okay?"

Marco is tight lipped, blinking in Jean's straightforward words. "Yes, okay. Sorry, I should have thought that through. I just... Really wanted to talk to you. Well, to check up on you at least. I wasn't sure how to start a conversation though." He chuckles nervously, taking his hand off of the large sandwich sign he's carrying to scratch at his neck.

Why the hell would he want to talk to me? Jean's sceptical, looking him up and down with an intense gaze, as if Marco isn't actually there in front of him. "What?"

Marco shrugs. "You seem like a nice person. It's not too often you find those in Trost, so why not make the most of it, right?"

Jean swallows his nerves once more, unable to help the way his eyebrows crease. "Okay... Um. Listen, if you're looking for a backyard blowjob or something, all you have to do is ask. It's my job, so no freebies, but you don't need to go gettin' my hopes up and shit with proposals of friendship or whatever."

Marco's mouth widens. "Oh, n-no! I wasn't implying that at all! It's just, yeah, no, I was being completely serious. I don't- backyard blowjobs?" Disbelief clouds his words, and coherent thought no longer graces him. Jean's almost amused, but also incredibly embarrassed that he'd just gone on to assume something of this miraculous stranger, yet again.

"S-Shit, you didn't mean that, d-did you?" Jean asks, knowing the answer already. Marco shakes his head, sheepishly, and Jean groans. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't- it's just-... Look, uh, do you want to get a drink or something later? I'm b-busy now, but..."

Marco smiles, brightly, like he'd been waiting for Jean to ask that from the beginning. "I'd love to. My treat?"

"W-What?" Jean's incredulous. Who the hell gets offered a drink by a complete stranger, then offers to pay for it themselves? This poor kid clearly hasn't been in Trost too long. He's going to be chewed up and spat out long before he knows what's hit him; and there's no way Jean wants to be there when this Marco guy passed through the twisted gut of Trost's unrelenting stomach.

"I'd like to pay, is that alright? I know it's none of my business, but if your only job is blowing dudes in back alleyways... I think I'd feel better knowing you were spending your hard earned money on yourself."

Now Jean stares in disbelief. Is it taking advantage to accept his offer? Jean hasn't ever been offered a drink before, especially not by a stranger who didn't want a blow job. "G-Geez, didn't even sugarcoat it, huh," He chuckles, weakly.

Marco shrugs it off. It's almost infuriating. "So, anywhere in particular? I don't want to keep you waiting. It gets dangerous late at night out here."

Jean knows that; all too well if he's being completely honest. "Um..." Jean's voice drifts, as do his thoughts. Does he even know anywhere? Jean smacks himself internally. Poor Marco, oblivious to the fact that Jean doesn't get out much. "Little Italy, I guess-"

"No!" Marco shouts, but quickly regains his composure. "N-No... I, uh, hate the cigarette smoke down there. Asthmatic, you know. How about Rico's? It's on the main road, but on this side."

Still in disbelief, Jean simply nods. "Okay. Yeah, sure. I'm off at five, then."

Marco smiles again, hoisting the sign above his head to continue on down the mall. "I'll see you at five, Jean. Stay safe!"

What more could he have said? It's not like Marco would have let him off anyway. Would he? Unable to comprehend the situation that had unfolded, Jean shoves his hands into the pockets of his hole-adorned jumper, and paints his signature scowl across his features. He doesn't need to be approached before he's at his safe spot.

Jean snorts. Safe spot? In Trost? Now he's delusional. There's no place in Trost safer than beneath the blankets of your own bed; and even that's a far cry from safe, in the literal meaning of the word.

No. Trost isn't safe, but there are places that aren't as homicide-ridden, like deep within the interior of the central mall. It's well-lit atmosphere keeps those who welcome it safe, and those who prefer to lurk in the shadows out of harms way.

Trost civilians prefer to see what they want to, and ignore what doesn't involve them. They're the same as children. If you can't see it, it's not there - the monsters beneath your bed or hidden amongst your clothes. The people of Trost are just like that. They pretend that suffering and homelessness and crime isn't surrounding them at every moment, so long as it's masked by the shadows created for it.

Jean follows the same path he's used for over a year, and ends up within the shadows behind the stingy bar Marco had rescued him from. If he's asthmatic, why would he work at a place like this? Jean tries not to dwell on it. It's none of his business. Marco's none of his business; he doesn't intend to get caught up in someone else's life again.

It didn't do Eren any good, it surely won't be good for Marco either. He's too trusting, too confident that there are good people in the world. And if being fucked over by reality is what he needs to wake up and smell the toxic fumes, then Jean won't do anything to get in between him and his doomed fate.

You can't trust the people in Trost; not even yourself. It's not worth the brief sense of security, or the slight tang of orange rind caught in someone's teeth as you kiss them, or the sick sense of hope when one diagnosis out of several isn't as bad.

It's not worth the hurt.

- **x** -

Jean wipes away salvia stringing from his lips, wincing as his most recent client sighs against the damn, mouldy brick wall, bumming a cigarette. He hates how guilty he feels. Shouldn't he be used to it by now? It's his own decision, to live like this, after all. Why can't he set aside that tiny bit of pride? He doesn't deserve to have respect for himself. 

"You got a mouth like a fuckin' minx, kid." The man beside him blows his last puff and zips his zipper up the rest of the way, delving into his wallet and presenting Jean $30. "Here, have a bonus. It ain't right, you doing this, not that I'm complaining but... Go buy yourself a jacket or a good meal, you're all skin and bones."

Jean swallows roughly, throat stinging, as he reaches out to take the money carefully. If he were to let it go, would it disappear from his fingertips? He keeps his gaze directed towards the ground. "T-Thanks, Farlan. You're too generous."

Another person who's been used by the smoggy atmosphere surrounding them. Jean doesn't mind reliving Farlan of his stresses; he's always more than accommodating and respectful. Farlan bids him a good evening, and against his better judgement, Jean decides to stand Marco up. Why should he go for a drink with that guy anyway? They don't even know each other. He's earned $78 this evening, he doesn't need the charity of some do-gooder in this lifetime, nor the next.

So, he heads through the bustling city streets, and takes the bus back to the stop just before St Maria's. It's a little after five when Jean enters through the front doors of the youth hostel, and is caught in the crossfire of venomous words thrown between Eren and Nanaba.

Eren's fists are balled at his sides, but they're gripping at his loose shirt. He barely registers Jean is there, apart from the fearful glance he shares with him, before upping his defences against a furious looking Nanaba. 

As she makes eye contact with Jean, and Jean's eyes fall upon the small plastic baggie clasped tightly between her fingertips, that thick lump returns to Jean's throat. Eren's eyes now bore into the side of his head as the shouting subsides, and Jean feels sick.

You really can't trust anyone in Trost.


	5. Armin, Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- drug addiction (specifically heroin)  
> \- mentions of anxiety (will become explicit in later chapters, and will be mentioned at the start)

 

 

> " _We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."_ \- **Plato**
> 
>  

Fireworks, gunshots, flares; loud, ear piercing claps echo through damp dark streets. A rundown, brown brick apartment building gives shelter to thieves and substance abusers in its alleyway, some calling out to those who dare to walk in this neighbourhood alone. Their shouts and whistles are left ignored, just as they are.

Following the fire escape, a dim lamp sits precariously on the windowsill of a tacky bed sit; it's early enough in the morning that sunlight is scarce, streetlights lit brightly against the dark and dull, cloudy sky.

The windows are cracked, mites live in cities formed amongst the fibres of the carpet, and a variety of sharps are collected in the corner of the room beside a broken, second-hand double bed. A muss of stringy, unwashed blonde hair catches droplets of water falling from the ceiling of the rundown bed sit; one that no one but the desperate and totally broke would even think of living in. Its a health and safety hazard, much like its inhabitant. 

Most of the citizens of Trost would say that everywhere in that godforsaken city was a safety hazard.

Off-white walls ooze a thick, sticky substance, and not wearing enclosed shoes is just about the same as tying the rope around your own neck at the gallows. Mould and mildew collect in moist corners of the asbestos structure, and a rat or two scamper through the hole behind the dingy refrigerator, stealing another cut off of pizza left untouched on the cracked kitchen tabletop. It's almost completely gone, giving the illusion it had been nibbled on by human teeth.

A thin, young blonde sits cross legged on his bed, a second-hand syringe poking out of his forearm, and a belt done up tightly at his bicep. His mind is absent to the trials and tribulations of the rats desperate for food, and the water beginning to collect in his bird nest hair doesn't faze him at all. He's too busy shaking, shivering for the hit he's been waiting for, watching as his veins appear to convulse with every clenching of his muscles.

His feet tap relentlessly, and his body moves in discomfort as the last of the substance is injected into his body. It's cold, colder than the rest of the room, and it travels directly towards his bloodstream; and then the feeling is lost.

He takes the syringe out of his arm, removing the needle and flinging it onto the mismatched carpet. No one of any ignorance to his situation checks up on him anymore; he won't need to clean up anything unsightly. Not that he would bother to anyway. Would anyone really care? And if they did, would it be enough to stop him from partaking in the one and only thing left that gives him enjoyment? Of course it wouldn't.

And just like that, the rush hits instantly. It's a warm and tingling sensation, beginning at the tips of his fingers and travelling through his arms, around his neck, his chest. His skin is flush, the come-down of his last hit beginning to re-spark at the new surge of energy.

It's a pleasing feeling, and the young blonde finds himself now able to cross the small stretch to his wardrobe and get dressed. There aren't many warm, clean clothes, so he opts for dark skinny jeans and a light sweater; the same clothes he wore yesterday. Or was it the day before? It covers up what it has to, nonetheless; the cold won't bother him that much, not with the way his skin is flaming hot to the touch.

It's not enough to deter him from the overwhelming sensations he feels at the mercy of a heroin injection, though. Not even the envelope left open on his chipped and splintered coffee table would drive him away from his only pleasure in life.

Armin Arlert, Hepatitis B positive. He shrugged it off as his eyes barely skimmed the bolted lettering on the page. His doctor probably just typed that up to scare him; he doesn't like him much anyway. Armin's sure Dr Thomas Wagner felt a surge of satisfaction when he'd been given the results.

He'd been given hell by his classmates when they were still at school, seeing as Armin managed to one up him in everything. Who's to say he didn't cause Armin to get Hep B in the first place? Taking blood with an infected needle, not sterilising surgical tools. He wouldn't put it past him.

But it's not like Armin drinks that much anyway. His liver will be fine.

Armin rakes a hand through his unruly hair as he checks himself over in the mirror. He's lost a lot of weight. Whether it's the drugs or the fact that he would rather go hungry than experience withdrawal, he can't exactly answer.

No, of _course_ he can. Who wants to go through withdrawal? No one. It's better to starve than to shiver and shake and wish death upon yourself more than necessary. His bathroom door opens, after a few forceful pushes from inside, and Hitch Dreyse gives him an apologetic smile. "Thanks for letting me stay here, Armin. It really means a lot."

Armin shrugs. "Don't worry about it. It's not much, but this place is always open for you, you know that."

She smiles, meekly. Armin wouldn't dare comment on her sunken face, nor the way vomit stains her lips a pale orange. "You're a gem, Armin." His plastered smile falters. She's not coping with the medication. "You don't mind if I crash here for a few more hours, do you? I know Marlowe's sister doesn't leave until three, and she hates me. I don't want to scare her off more than I already have."

Broken, beaten, hanging on just a little to the useless hope that maybe things could turn out okay. Who hopes in Trost though? Idiots, fools, delusional bohemians. Armin hums. He's _always_ been a fool. Even one who's given up hope, yet still holds on to it by the tethers. "You can stay as long as you want, Hitch. I don't mind... Just, watch out for-"

"I know." She offers him a heartfelt smile, this time genuine, and places a shaky hand on each of his shoulders. "I'll clean it up for you while you're gone."

Armin can't help the wave of guilt pressing at his chest, but nods solemnly. "Okay. Just... Please be careful?"

"I will. I've made a lot of mistakes, but I'm not about to throw away three months of progress for five minutes of pleasure, and spend the rest of my life loathing the decisions I actually had power over. You know?"

No, he doesn't. "Yeah. Okay, well... I'm going now. There should be enough coins in the jar to order Chinese or something later, if you're hungry."

Hitch's plastered smile falls ever so slightly, but she shrugs it off. "You should take your own advice sometime, Armin. You need to be careful just as much as I do, or else you'll end up with far worse than Hep. Believe me, you've got off easy..."

Armin swallows, saliva coating the course bumps on his throat, and leaves without further word. He has a few dollars in his back pocket, and Hitch doesn't press him for anymore conversation. Maybe it's because she knows that Armin has never experienced two weeks of suffering, because he doesn't miss out on his daily dose of mind-numbing pleasure. Or maybe it's because in her mind, Armin has made some sort of progress.

It's not like he _hasn't_. Now he uses when she's in the bathroom, or when she's not there at all. Her boyfriends sister only visits once every two or three months, anyway. Sometimes he'll even go as far as to use when he purchases, depending on the location. It doesn't matter, so long as no one he knows sees him. Like Hitch, or Jean. Armin scoffs to himself. _What would Jean think? Seeing him as he is, for who he truly is?_ He can't keep up the ' _I'm okay'_ facade forever, no matter how easy it's been.

That guy sees through everything, on a similar level to Armin himself, before he became infatuated with loosing his coherence.

Armin shivers against the cold morning air as he steps out into the streets, a dark cloud hanging above his head, filling his mind with smog as thick as the air he breathes. The streets smell of smoke, leaking gas, and sex. He looks over warily at a pair of teenagers sat on steps across the street, a young girl crying into the arms of a lean man, who appears ill. Armin can't help but sigh; he's going to lose his other leg, it seems.

There aren't many people on the streets at this hour of the morning; it's stupid that even Armin dared to walk onto the streets in his state. People who appear meek and used don't often make their way back to their homes in this side of Trost.

Armin catches the train into the innards of the city, sitting alone at the back of the carriage to avoid having to pay for his ticket. He doesn't have enough for that and a bottle of water; it's undrinkable at his apartment, contaminated by whatever lies beneath the building in the sewers. It's too often Armin's caught mosquito larvae in pots left soaking in the water left in the sink. That's why he doesn't cook anymore, let alone wash dishes.

A woman facing him a few seats down smiles at him, a smile of pity. Armin returns it, knowing just how forced and unsettling it looks painted on his face. He has to remind himself that smiling is not equal to happiness, that he can smile without having to pretend he's happy, too.

It doesn't do much good, but it's far better than trying to convince himself that he's okay with the way he is. Because he's not. No matter how many smiles and laughs he's let out over the past few years, they've all been for naught. He's not happy.

And who would be? Having to sleep with strangers at all hours of the night, never letting yourself take a break in fear that you'll loose money you could be spending on drugs? Armin has to fight back tears. No, he's not happy. He hates his situation, and most of all, he hates himself.

Who could love someone if all they thought about was the next time they could inject themselves with heroin or snort crack? Who could love themselves if that was all they did? Not even the people who promised him the world, who said they would be there for him and love him unconditionally, just as parents should.

No, not even _they_ loved him.

- **x** -

_Three Years Ago_

'Armin, please. You're being unreasonable.' His fathers voice echoed down the long, tiled hallway. His heeled shoes clicked as he walked away, suit immaculate and chest puffed; he'd already passed his judgement.

Armin felt inadequate. His mother stood in the doorway of his bedroom, her arms crossed over her chest; her lips were turned down into a condescending scowl. 'Your father is right, you know. You need to start showing us a little respect honey. We raised you.'

Armin scoffed, eyes rolling painfully. 'No you didn't. Miss Ral raised me! You've been too busy at work or on the phone or going to fancy dinner parties. I can't remember the last time you even told me you loved me!'

Eyes wide in shock, his mother stood straight at his words. 'Armin Arlert. You will take those words back immediately. We've done nothing but support you, and this is how you repay us? Buying dope with money that should be going towards your education?'

They hadn't even confiscated it. She hadn't even disagreed. Armin shrugged, sighed, and put his headphones on. His mother soon left, her own heels clicking down the hallway and then down the stairs, tapping annoyingly at the back of Armin's mind. He was glad he couldn't hear them arguing over him before they left for yet another business dinner on the other side of the city.

Armin didn't think twice as he lit up the blunt, sitting in the backyard behind their garage. He petted the cat and smoked, mind dulling into a false sense of calm.

If marijuana - a drug he'd been taught about at school, hadn't done anything those obnoxious teachers said it would - hadn't harmed him in any way, then who's to say that other, more potent drugs would either? The kind of drugs that could make him feel really, really good.

Who would pass up the opportunity of having free chemical imbalance treatment? 

- **x** -

His stop appears quicker than anticipated, and Armin's stomach relaxes at the sight of the bookstore on the corner. He doesn't even react to the train driver requesting his fee.

The polished bronze handles on the door are cool beneath his warm palms. He missed the feeling of security this small place brought him; but it's far better than crawling around the streets at night for some sick pleasure or a handful of cash. He was granted the right to come in early when he worked, to open up and dust the place before customers just flocked in from all over the world to read the books whose covers were torn and pages stained dark. Armin chuckles dryly to himself.

He could dust all he wanted. There were a grand total of five people who came into the bookstore daily, and three of them usually hang out around the back section, either reading erotica or performing it.

Ms Brzenska wasn't too bad, picking a few books to take home on weekends. But she worked there, so it didn't count.

And then, Armin's favourite customer. The one who never checks anything out that isn't Armin, who's eyes tell a thousand stories with their fleeting glances, and who's determined nature couldn't leave him if he tried. He was always so nervous, but Armin couldn't see why. There's something about that boy that drives him wild, a passion within him that had been tamed enough to not attract attention in the small store.

One again, Armin couldn't see why. As he opens the blinds and starts up the computer, he has to wonder: why doesn't that guy just be himself? He's clearly so much more than what he lets on, tip-toeing around the book shelves as if the ground will fall from beneath him.

With an itch on his arm he can't seem to scratch, Armin gives himself a task. Talk to the guy. He always comes in when Armin's working, seeming to have memorised his schedule, so there's no way he'll skip out. _What will he say?_ He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

For now, making the store look as inviting as a sixty seven year old building can be is his goal. Why focus on the future when the here and now is already occurring? He'll have plenty of time to stress of that brunette throughout the day.

He usually comes just before closing time anyway. That's plenty of time to fight tooth and nail against the swarm of ravenous butterflies that invade his cavernous stomach so often.

Armin occupies his thoughts by dusting the shelves and aligning the books perfectly with one another. He takes pride in his work, keeping everything immaculate; even the books that are old and torn need to be cared for, if not more than those which are in mint condition.

He has to look after something properly, right? Construction is always preferred over destruction, in the eyes of society. No matter how much he hates himself and his addictions, he can't let others know that. Armin would probably loose his job if they found out about his self-abusing nature.

Drugs and depression fuck you up, sure; but having to lie about it does something to your mind that is somehow worse.

Armin occupies himself further with rearranging the service desk, then browsing YouTube for videos of animals fucking up. He has to hold back an audible chuckle, realising how he chooses to waste time. Why not just quit his job? Then he wouldn't have to occupy himself. He could get high or vomit or do more damage whenever he felt like it.

His smile is bittersweet when Hanji Zoe skitters through the door, shivering at the cold. It had begun to snow heavily while he was distracted.

"Good morning, Armin!" She says cheerfully, switching on the lights. He'd forgotten to do it again. Maybe that's why living in the dark is bad for you; you forget to even turn on the lights outside of your own goddamn home. "How are you today?"

Armin shrugs, switching out of the tabs. "Not too bad, I guess. How are you? I didn't even notice it started to snow."

She laughs. "Me either! One minute it was just another chilly morning in Trost, and the next I was struggling to put my coat on. And I'm pretty good, actually. I have an interview tomorrow, at least... That must count for something, at least." Hanji hurries behind the desk with Armin, tucking her multitude of bags and papers beneath the desk and thrusting a take-away Starbucks into Armin's hands. "It's with Pixis," She continues, taking up a seat beside him and scooting closer. "I think I've got a good story, you know? I think I- we've really got a chance."

Armin smiles. "How _is_ Levi? I haven't heard you talk about him for a while now." He doesn't miss the blush that spreads which across Hanji's cheeks.

"O-Oh, he's... Great! Just great, I think. He did most of the research, and I went out to check the place. So, um. Yeah. Good." As Armin raises an eyebrow, Hanji sighs, placing her coffee on the desk. "He's got this crush on someone- who isn't me, for the record. Some ' _Eren_ ' he runs with. I've never seen any photos of her, but I think I know more about her than she knows about herself, you know?"

Armin's lips press together tightly as he hums. "I'm sorry to hear that. But- it's just a crush. And you said it's someone he runs with, right? That means he'd only see her a few times a week. He sees you everyday!"

Hanji's smile isn't meaningful. "Thanks, Armin. But... You know. She's a runner, she's probably beautiful, and sporty. Probably has a nice smile, and laughs like an angel... I snort when I laugh. And I laugh like a horse!"

Hanji chuckles with Armin, always easy to get along with, but Armin can hear the hurt behind her voice. He doesn't blame her, either. She's loved Levi for over two years, but never acted upon it. What more was there to say? Of course she'd be hurting if he was interested in another woman. They put that topic of conversation behind them when their official working hours start, and the doors open for the first time of many that day.

Armin assists with people looking for books, helps the elderly use the computer to find what they're looking for, and keeps a constant eye out for the green-eyes wonder yet to make an appearance. Maybe that's why he doesn't quit. Maybe, against all odds, Armin has actually found something that is more important than drugs. Impossible, right? Surely not.

Hanji keeps a watchful eye over Armin, having observed his silent deterioration over the course of the two years he'd worked there. But she never said anything - even though Armin noticed her watching him.

She's check out books for rent or purchase, with her mind clearly elsewhere. Armin thought it was Levi, at first, but every time they shared glances and she looked away only confirmed his second suspicion; she was worried about him.

And he just couldn't have that.

So he avoided her. No matter how hard, he made sure to be at the opposite end of the store from her at all times, struggling to push the lump in his throat down.

His stomach bubbled with sick, bile rose in his throat, and his head pounded. But he didn't leave - he's left enough as it was. If he ran away from another opportunity, that'd be it. He really could be classified as scum of the city, if he wasn't already.

A gust of cold wind fluttered the pages of the book Armin was scanning through, and looking up, Armin sees the boy who had more power over him than any drug ever could.

Today was the day. He'd made a promise, hadn't he? He had to talk to this guy. Even if it drove his nervous system wild, he had to do it. What more did he have to loose, anyway? It's not like he had any dignity left anyway.

Armin takes in a deep breath, making his decision final; he will talk to this guy, no matter what. But what will he say? How can he start a conversation? What if he's a total asshole and Armin has just been wasting his time?

"... E-Excuse me?"

Armin's voice catches in his throat, his vision struck by the deep emerald eyes trying desperately not to tear themselves away from his gaze.

"Uh, y-yes? Yes, how can I, uh, help you?" He stammers, gripping tightly into the ancient book in his hands. He's lucky there are so many bookshelves around to lean on, just in case he passes out from the emotional trauma of finally speaking to this guy.

"Well, see... I'm, uh. I'm looking for a good book. To- you know, read before bed or something."

Armin can't help but smile. This guy... He's just precious. "Sure! What genre are you into? We've got a variety, to let or to purchase, it's really dependant on if you're up for the challenge!"

 _God, why did he say that_. Now he's leaning against the shelf like a blubbering idiot, watching as the incredible specimen in front of him chuckles at his complete lack of social grace.

"Anything I guess... What would you recommend?" He asks, taking a shy step forward. Armin's heart races as he guides the other man through the shelves across the first floor, talking at a rapid pace - until the man adds sheepishly, "I'm Eren, by the way."

Armin's heart flutters. Eren... "Nice to meet you. I'm Armin." They exchange a hand shake, both lingering a little too long, then continue until Armin immediately locates a red-covered book.

Armin clears his throat, tucking a loose strand of hair whine his ear. "Um. My all time favourite book is this one: Norwegian Wood, by Haruki Murakami... It's, well. I don't want to spoil anything, it's just got nice imagery and- yeah. You might not like it, but I enjoy it. So..."

Eren takes it gingerly from Armin's hands, smiling brightly. "It's perfect." You're perfect. "I'm sure if you're recommending it it'll be a good read... So, thanks. Can I just rent it for now?"

Never had the proposal for someone to rent a book sounded more appealing, more enticing. Armin leads Eren to the front counter, ignoring Hanji's chuckles as he scans the book and hands it to him. "Have you got a library card? If you sign up your first check out is free."

Eren smiles from his eyes now. "I don't have one, but if this is free then sign me up!"

Armin takes down Eren's surprisingly scarce details. _More like sign me up for you_... God. How can Armin stand a chance with this guy? Surely this is just some ploy to win over his girlfriend or something.

But then, Eren's smiles catches Armin by surprise. He hands him his new library card in a daze, and almost misses the wink Eren throws his way as he leaves the store.

Papers shuffle, people's conversations seem to die down, and suddenly the world stops spinning. If just for a moment, Armin is so far away from the present moment that he feels his feet lift off of the floor. That didn't just happen, did it? He had to be imagining it. _Did Eren really just...?_

"You're hooked."

"Fucking- _Hanji_!"

 

* * *

 

Have you ever seen a toddler stepping onto the beach for the first time? They flail their arms and cry and throw their things as if all of the time spent spitting the dummy will prevent them from going any further into the unknown. But usually, it doesn't. Against their will, screaming toddlers are dragged onto the beach by relentless parents, until they learn that the sand isn't so bad, and that the water isn't so scary after all. After a day of kicking sand and loosing hot chips to fearless seagulls, the ritual repeats with the toddlers begging to stay just a few more minutes.

Everyone knows what happens when you have too much fun: it ends. You have to pack up and go home, back to a place that feels neither like a home nor somewhere you want to go back to. But you have to; even if you have a choice, something within you takes that luxury away from you. Any choice you'd ever had suddenly doesn't matter, because in that moment, you don't have a choice. You only have impulses; sensations that gnaw at the base of your neck, threatening to snap and itch and sweat.

Armin swallows the bitter bile that rises in his throat, the hot liquid burning his chest as his balled fist shakes against the scratched, wooden door of appartment 77. He can't for the life of him move his feet, his body rigid. If only he could move, escape and never look back - make the choice to never walk the familiar path to this godforsaken hellhole. It's only ever made his life misery.

But it's always taken away the bitter aftertaste Trost leaves in the mouths of its inhabitants. What more harm could it do?

Armin works up enough courage to let his first make contact with the door, tapping three times before it is opened immediately. The tall, well-built man who answers it smiles knowingly. "Usual stuff?" He asks, nonchalantly.

Armin sighs breathlessly. "Yeah."

"You sound disheartened. What, life's finally caught up with you?" His voice hammers the knowledge right into Armin's mind, but he ignores it.

"I don't care. Just give me my stuff, please."

"Hm. Wait here." He disappears from the doorway and appears not a minute later with a snap-lock bag, filled just over half way with a white powder. "It's stronger than usual. Don't go using wastefully - I'm not going to cover your ass when you can't pay us back. Got it?"

Armin takes the package, gripping it between his fingers like it could disappear if he didn't hold on. "Yes, I understand. I'll have the rest of your payment by tomorrow-"

Armin's money is snatched from his palms before he can continue. "Seven thirty. See you then, Armin." The door is shut in his face, and Armin's knees threaten to buckle under him. He hasn't eaten all day - it's just past eleven at night.

How could he have missed an entire day? His mind had wandered, and never found its way back to him until just now? The realisation hits him. He's been living blankly for years now, this isn't anything new. Armin mind wanders briefly back to Eren, as he takes the iron stares back down to the lobby. But it's isn't enough. Not even the cold bite behind the wind on the streets is enough to free his mind from itself.

He's been playing with dirty money all his life. From his parents, from strange people with strange fantasies - and what good has it done? Everything he has is filthy. Has he ever really been clean? In every sense of the word, no, he hasn't.

If only he could buy things with money he's earned. Properly earned, not been rewarded with through sleeping with people or given to him by parents that were too busy with their self-importance to care for their only child.

He needed them, and they weren't there. He needed to be cared for, and he wasn't. He needed someone to teach him the ways of the world, to love and not judge, and to just fucking be the for him whenever he went of the deep end, too scared to move, too shaken up to breathe. When his heart hammered out of his chest and his head spun, when he sat on the cold tiles of his upper story bathroom begging to be taken from the world, cursing his intolerance to the medication that left his system as quickly as it had entered.

Why couldn't he have died then? Trost would have been better off. Hell, the world would have been better off. He's just one more piece of trash that litters the smoggy streets, making life harder for the people that feel uncomfortable around such profane commodities.

The onset of an upset stomach forms a cold lump in Armin's chest. Chills prickle up his spine, induced by a sinister internal feeling far worse than the cold late-night air, and his intestines tying painful knots around one another. He's got everything he needs, what could he possibly be anxious about? As the view of his rundown apartment block comes into view, his knees begin to give in.

A few more steps, a few more steps. One flight of stairs, and a few more steps. Armin weakly whispers his mantra as he makes it to the double doors of the building. They're mostly cracked, patched with masking tape, and open without much force.

Armin's grateful, and manages to make it up the iron stairs and to his apartment, just before his stomach cries out painfully. He makes it to the bathroom in time. Hitch isn't there. His apartment door isn't locked, but it's closed.

Armin shakes on his porcelain throne, bottom lip quivering, and cool bile begins to rise in his oesophagus. Some kind of food poisoning? His guts twist at the thought, and the painful contraction is accompanied by a series of throaty wretches, before the little contents of his stomach project across the chipped tiles of the bathroom floor.

He heaves, clutching his stomach and shaking rapidly. Rocking backwards and forwards to calm himself down, Armin sobs, catching sight of the heroin within his package that had fallen from his pocket.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine. It's still in the bag. This will pass, I'll be fine.

A blubbering mess, Armin manages to escape the bathroom with ease, swallowing the remainder of the bile that threatens to rise time and time again. After a few mouthfuls of water, his stomach settles, and his fidgety hands find the white powder without a second thought.

- **x** -

'It's such a pity he's turned out like this...'

'What do you mean, 'like this'?' His voice is impatient, and her fingers drummed on the mahogany of his desk, fake nails clicking against it musically.

Armin's presence isn't acknowledged, his body firmly wedged between the corridor wall and the door leading into his fathers study. His mother sighs dramatically. 'How can you even ask that? He's fifteen, and he's already smoking marijuana. He's been caught out at school for dealing heroin, he's failing classes, and I haven't seen him eat a proper meal in weeks!'

His father sighs, discarded glasses hitting his desk with a telltale tap. 'Dear, we shouldn't have to watch over him like hawks. He is fifteen, and he needs to learn on his own terms. We raised a smart, sensible young boy - he's in there somewhere. Stop worrying, he's just a teenager. He'll do stupid things, he'll learn, and that'll be that. When he takes over the company he'll have to-'

'Takes over the company!?' His mother stands to her feet, and Armin winces. 'He won't be taking over any company when he's living on the streets like some drugged up piece of homeless garbage! You saw what happened to-'

The door slams behind him as Armin storms down the hallway, making it known he'd been listening. Who were they to say those things about their own child? He'd show them. He could be whoever he wanted to be, and their opinion didn't matter.

He'd bounce back, he always did. And he didn't deal heroin, he sold it for reasonable prices. He was an entrepreneur, just like his father, right? He had to be.

- **x** -

"Armin?"

Armin's eyes snap back from their daze, blinking in the bright, white light of a doctors office. "S-Sorry?"

"We want to know how you're feeling today."

Armin sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and sliding down in his seat. Crap. Awful. Shitty. Disgusting, useless, worthless, pitiful. "Good. Great, actually. I'm really improving." He adds a large, cheerful smile to reiterate his point. The leader of their rehabilitation circle, Ms Petra Ral, smiles warmly.

"That's fantastic to hear," She says. "Isn't it nice to be able to enjoy the natural highs of life? When you can fully appreciate them for what they are, without your mind in a haze?"

Armin nods, smiling. "Oh, yes. It's just wonderful being clean." Across the circle, a rather tired, distraught looking man puts up his hand. Daz, the schizophrenic; how his mother let him get ahold of hard drugs was beyond anyone in the room, but it had done a number on the poor guy. Still, he tried his best.

"Yes, Daz?" Petra asks, motioning to Daz with a careful hand. "Do you have something to share?"

He shakes his head. "N-No, not today. But, um. How long have you been clean, Armin?"

The group nod and chatter amongst themselves, but Petra settles them with a soothing shush. Armin scratches at the skin of his hand. "Uh... Four, five weeks maybe?" He says, his tone f voice questionable. Never had a round of applause made him feel quite so nauseous. The rest of the group share their stories; they say their mantra, their goodbyes, and Armin gets out of there as fast as possible - Hitch can barely keep up with him.

"Enlighten me," She starts, clicking her tongue and linking her arm with Armin's. "You hated it. It was the worst experience of your life and you will never, ever get that half an hour back."

Armin nods curtly. "You're exactly right. That was a depressing waste of time. Who thought it was a good idea to put a group of drug addicts in the same room? They're all itching for another hit... L-Look over there!" Armin points across the road, where two members of the circle exchange an embrace. "That guy is handing her a syringe. They were both in there, on either side of me! You saw them in there, and you can see the, now. Isn't that just messed up?"

Hitch hums, bringing Armin closer to her with a tug on his arm as they cross the street. It's a colder day than usual. "You have to see it from the other side to truly understand, Armin. And five weeks? Really?"

He chuckles. "Not convincing?"

Hitch grins knowingly. "With you itching and scratching and practically chewing the draw string of your hoodie off? Not in the slightest."


	6. Paper Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dramatic irony at its finest.

A storm of a different kind ravaged the city streets that night, so many years ago. Within the thin walls of St Maria's, a sickly-thin blonde boy cried in the corner of his bedroom, clinging onto the last remaining thing of his family he could salvage; an old rag of a blanket. Given to him as a child, complete with patchwork stitching and faded colours, he was told it was made for him with love. But while it used to smell of sweet perfume, it had then been soaked with tears and the musky smell of old furnishing. It reminded him of the back room at his grandparents' house, tormenting his tiny mind with its silent stitching.

'Why do you have that?' Asked his brunette roommate, who sat on his bed scratching at scabby, un-plastered skin. This boy was the sole reason he wasn't sleeping on the street; shouldn't he have been thanking him?

'Because... Its from my m-mom," Replied the boy. 'She made it for me when I was born.'

'So? It's all gross and snotty now. And it smells weird.'

'But I l-love her very much.'

With a raised eyebrow, the brunette boy got up from his bed and crossed the room, kneeling down beside the other boy and placing a hand on his shoulder. 'She left you in the middle of the city, in the rain. Maybe its just me but... It doesn't seem like she loves you very much, Jean.'

'Yes she does! Go away, Eren! Leave me alone!' Shouted Jean, pushing Eren away with a single shove and curling in on himself. He closed his eyes, blocking out the world around him, shuffling so close to the corner that it made marks on his skinny calves pressed against the wall.

They would yell and scream at each other, then they'd yell and scream at him, and then suddenly the world would go dark and he would wake up in his bedroom trying not to cry from the pain of his limbs because boys don't cry Jean and you need to take it like a man. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. What had he done? Why was he not good enough? Why did he have to go away?

Why was Eren right?

Eren made no move to leave, but mumbled a simple apology and wrapped an arm around Jean's shoulders, drawing him close. When he wasn't pushed away, and Jean sobbed into his shoulder rather than his dirty rag of a memory, Eren managed to get Jean to calm down.

As morning approached, and teary-eyed Jean was tucked up in bed listening to the sounds of Eren's light snoring, he made the decision to trust and protect that boy with his life.

Eren took him from the streets, found him shelter, and held him closer than any other person had done throughout his entire life. He held him like he meant it, spoke to him like he deserved to be spoken to.

It was only fair that Jean replayed his kindness, after all he'd done for him already.

Most of all; honesty, comfortability, and approachability aside, Eren was right. If his mother really loved him, why would she leave him to fend for himself in the middle of a huge crime-ridden city? She wouldn't... He only clung to that hope because it was all he had left.

Or at least, all he had left before those green eyes tore him from the road and covered him with blankets from his own warm bed.

 

* * *

 

Nanaba thrust the package of cocaine into Jean's sweaty palms, and the world as he knew it came crashing down. She glared at him accusingly, as if waiting for an explanation, but all he could focus on was the look in Eren's eyes. They were no longer flecked with specks of gold, rather that of blue. He looked hurt, and abandoned; lied to. Without a word, Jean had handed the package back to Nanaba and taken a step forward to Eren, unable to form the right words, because there weren't any.

What was he supposed to say? Nothing would undo what had been done. Nothing would get rid of that bag, nothing would replace the hurt in Eren's eyes, and nothing could exchange Jean's total loss of faith in himself.

How many times had he told himself that no one was trustworthy? How many times had he begged, had he pleaded, that someone else take away his own pain? And now, he was the one who was untrustworthy, the one who brought the pain. Jean's voice caught in his throat, and his words came out choked, strangled by his guilty, corrupted mind. "Eren, I-"

"Save it." Eren's voice was bitter, words tainted with the aftertaste of betrayal; they sounded foreign on his tongue, one which was usually used to share words of encouragement and fun. He pushed past Jean and stormed up the stairs, shouting profanities back at Nanaba who chased after him calling bloody murder.

All around him, Jean could feel the accusatory stares of the people who knew. What they thought they knew, they didn't, but it was enough to make Jean's blood boil. He fucked up. He was selfish. He knew that, and they now knew that too. Why hadn't he got rid of that bag before he'd left? It didn't matter. Jean stood still, unable to move, and Eren reappeared with a backpack and a stare that could split steel.

"You've got problems, Kirschtein," Eren spat, shoving Nanaba off of his shoulder, who tried in vain to hold him back. "Maybe think about someone other than yourself for once in your _fucking_ life - might do you some good, yeah?"

With that, he left. Jean stood still, expression and mind blanker than a canvas devoid of meaning. Nanaba stood still, sighing as she held the small bag at eye level, flicking its contents. There was no denying it. Eren had purchased cocaine, with the definite intent of using, and the evidence was right in front of the both of them.

But he gave it to Jean to get rid of it. He didn't _want_ to mess up again. He _wanted_ to stay clean, to improve. And Jean fucked that chance up for him. Jean couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with anyone, keeping his gaze down as he ran up to his room and locked the door from the inside, allowing his tears to spill from his eyes as he lie face first on the nearest bed; Eren's bed.

It smelt of _him_. Soap, earth; home. The smell of Eren's shampoo infiltrated his nostrils in a way that brought stinging pain to his chest. He'd always been an ugly crier, uglier than Eren, as had been pointed out to him so many years ago. He hated the way his tears were soiling Eren's perfect bed, where he lay night after night regardless of where he could be, where he deserved to be.

 _What had he done?_ In the name of selfishness, Jean had just about ruined the part of Eren's life that was getting somewhere, that could get somewhere. It was all his fault.

Jean fell asleep on Eren's bed, and one week later, he had barely moved.

Nanaba had knocked on his door three times a day since Eren disappeared, but he never answered. Why did he need to? They had a bathroom in their room, after all, and a stash of sweets hidden beneath Eren's mattress. Jean hadn't eaten much, but when he thought he would pass out from hunger he tried to keep some down.

But why? His selfishness probably kept a man he barely knew waiting for him at all hours of the night, and it drove away the one person who had stuck by his side since he was a broken, beaten child. Jean wasted his days staring at the ceiling, counting chipped paint and imagining swirls of colour that might one day make it up there. But the colour he needed was missing. It had been missing for a while now.

Someone knocks on the hefty wooden door, but Jean barely acknowledges it. The presence doesn't disappear, knocking insistently again, so Jean grunts a response.

"Are you alive?" Nanaba asks, seemingly frustrated.

Jean sighs through his nose. _I wish I wasn't_. "Mmhm."

Nanaba's voice changes, but not by much. "Will you come outside today? It's not healthy for you to be locked up in the dark all day. And surely it's cold in there without heating."

"The curtain's open."

Nanaba sighs. "Get out, or I'll have to use the spare keys, Jean. Eren isn't here, and no one has heard from him. There's nothing we can do about it... It serves him right for trying to pull something like that anyway, especially when he was just starting to-"

Nanaba nearly falls to the floor, the door taken away from her body weight relying on it. She curses, rubbing her head, as Jean seethes. His costs are balked at his sides, memories of his fathers teaching ' _never hit a woman'_ barely prominent in his mind. " _Don't_ speak about him like that."

"Why, Jean? You know it's true. He deserves to have some sense knocked into him-"

"By some filthy, fucked up stranger!? By a drug addict? By the police? Nanaba, you and I both know what Eren is probably doing right now, and it's all my fucking fault. He's fucking twenty years old! Don't you feel any remorse? Any _pity_?"

"Don't you?"

Jean is taken aback, daring to step backwards momentarily before his temper snaps again. "Of course I do! He's my family! And he's yours too! Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you try harder? You're supposed to be our-"

"I'm not supposed to be your anything, I'm just the _fucking_ landowner!" Nanaba yells, her hands fisting into Jean's shirt and throwing him up against the wall. "I tried my best, Jean! I tried my fucking best! I've raised him since he was knee high to a grasshopper, and do you know what I get for it? A big ' _fuck you_ ' straight from his mouth. I fed him, I clothed him, and I was more of a mother to that boy than his real one ever was! Don't you know how hard it is to see something you've worked so hard on go up in smokes?"

Jean swallows, his jaw relaxing intentionally. "You think this is some kind of _project_? That caring for and raising neglected kids is something you need a reward for or something?"

"You wouldn't understand, Jean." Nanaba releases her grip on Jean, sighing as tears threaten to leave her eyes. "I have done all I can for that boy, but obviously, it isn't enough. He's a lost cause; you and I both know that. If he truly wants to get better, he's the only one who can change his ways... Don't go breaking your back just to help someone who doesn't want to be helped. It will only make you feel like shit."

"Nanaba-"

"He's twenty, Jean, you said so yourself. He's not a kid, but he's not an adult either. We're here if he wants us, and if he doesn't, he can go fuck himself over all he wants."

As Nanaba turns to leave, Jean places his hand in her shoulder and spins her around, teeth bared in defence. "You're a heartless woman, Nanaba."

Bitterly, she smiles. "I know that. Maybe that's why Eren can't be helped."

Jean stands in the doorway on limp legs, nearly two weeks' recluse catching up with him in a single minute. His body feels weak, his mind on overdrive. He needs a shave; the prickles of facial hair are long past the realm of mere stubble. He needs a shower; his hair stays in a state of array on its own, stuck there from oil that had collected and never been washed away. He needs money; there's no way he can live here anymore. Not with a lady who doesn't really care. And not without Eren.

Jean spends the rest of the day curled up in bed, wallowing in self pity, which only makes him more frustrated at himself. The cruelness of winter makes itself known, as a storm hits in the late hours of the same evening, scaring young children into hiding. Regular workers don't even dare to grave the cold, not even to earn a little cash or to get an extra hit. No one is that suicidal in here, not yet.

Everyone eats dinner together, which is both uncommon and stressful, and barely anyone acknowledges Jean take up a seat at the end of the table. Nobody joins him, and nobody dares to mention his name. Wind howls outside, causing the doors and windows of the old building to rattle and quake. Nobody dares to be the first person to speak, knowing that there wouldn't be any way for them to keep up a conversation without the voice of their favourite person.

 _Eren_... So many people miss him. Jean can't stomach his food, barely eating half a serve of mashed potatoes before taking his plate into the kitchen and returning to his bedroom. He didn't miss everyone's accusatory stares, but he didn't acknowledge them outwardly.

Why give them the satisfaction of knowing their stares got to him? Surely they already knew, anyway. He hadn't left his room for two weeks. There wasn't any way they wouldn't have noticed, even if he has shaved and showered.

As he re-enters the room, a chill courses it's way through his body. Jean changes into his pyjamas, even putting socks on, before crawling beneath the covers of his own bed. The sheets feel stale, uncomfortable, but if he spends any more time in Eren's bed he might as well stab his aorta.

It would be far less painful.

And then, his eyes meet the deeper, greener Tenerife Sea and his heart near stutters. "Eren... You're-"

"Shh." Eren sits cross legged on his bed, hunched in a darker corner with the contents of his backpack splayed out on his comforter. How hadn't Jean noticed him when he walked in? The window is even open. That's how he must have gotten in...

"Where were you? Eren, we've all been-"

Eren stands to meet Jean halfway across the room, embracing him in a tight hug and running his hands up and down Jean's back. "Please don't ask questions. Don't tell Nanaba I'm here. Just don't say anything."

"Eren..." Jean pulls away, his fingers still ghosting Eren's sides, taking in his appearance. He looks tired, almost as if he'd spent the last two weeks on deaths very door. That thought scares him, because it's probably not far from the truth. "Why did you come back?"

Eren smiles, stiffly. "I don't have anywhere else to go... If I stayed on the streets another night I think I would have been arrested again."

" _Again_? Wha-

"I don't want to talk about it. I'm fine now, it's fine. You should go to sleep - I know I need to."

Eren doesn't hesitate when Jean pulls him into his own bed, hating the way Eren's body feels so cold, so rigid. It's as if he hadn't ever been touched in his life. Had two weeks on his own starved him of human contact, to the point where he forgot how to accept it?

Jean tries not to let his emotions escape him. Not here, not now. His selfishness making him believe that he deserves to shed a tear when Eren is the one who should be crying. _Why does he think he deserves that?_ He should bottle everything up. Maybe it won't work, but maybe it will. It works for Eren... Jean sighs into the smaller guys hair, each one tickling his nice. Eren breathes comfortably beside him, already asleep.

While no one really knows when he's truly happy, everyone knows when he isn't.

It's the telltale signs Jean just can't overlook. The distance in his gaze, the emptiness in his words; the way someone who is so larger than life suddenly seems so small. As Eren gracefully accepts Jean being the bigger spoon, Jean knows that there is something wrong.

When Eren is down, he doesn't smile from his eyes, nor does he really smile at all. His lips turn up, sure, but that's their extent. He hasn't even smiled yet... But he's only been back for fifteen minutes or so. Or has he? Jean's mind whirls, not daring to overlook anything that might help him help Eren.

_Don't go breaking your back just to help someone who doesn't want to be helped..._

He has to approach the situation with delicacy. Eren's fight or flight responses are always on their heads, fighting when he should flee, and fleeing when he should be steadily grounded. Eren would rather swim across the pacific than deal head on with his emotions, that much Jean knows. So he needs to play his cards right, maintain his poker face, really reel Eren into the game.

He can do that. Tomorrow, or the next day, or even next week. Maybe Eren won't tell him why he left instead of facing the consequences, but maybe he will at least tell him where he'd gone for two whole weeks without contacting anyone.

Eren snores lightly beside him, and Jean resists the urge to speak aloud. God, Universe, whatever the Hell is out there... Thank you. Thank you for bringing him home.

- **x** -

Although never outwardly shown, Jean Kirschtein is a worrier. He worries for the lives of his friends, his self-declared family, and even the lives of people he doesn't know that well. Maybe he doesn't always show it, but he's always worrying about someone. It's his nature, his Achilles heel.

That's why, when his eyes drift open to the sound of the bathroom door closing carefully at six in the morning, he worries. Eren's bed is empty, as is the space beside him, and he can hear thick water hitting the porcelain bowl within the tiny stall a few feet away from his head.

Jean mumbles incoherently and sighs, shifting until he's sitting up. Eren's breathing is rapid and heavy, and there's no doubt about the shivers emanating from behind the closed door.

Jean stands and taps lightly on the wooden frame. Is he dreaming? Is this another horrible nightmare that's bound to keep him up again? He swallows, hard, fearful of the response he could get. Maybe Eren didn't even come home last night, and he'd dreamt it all as some sick way of coping with his guilt... "Eren?" He asks, trying not to sound alarmed.

Eren lets out a shaky breath from within the bathroom, a breath that Jean knows all too well. "I'm fine. Food poisoning or somethin'."

Jean nods to himself, mumbling a pitiful 'okay' and crawling back into his bed. He can't help but hold his mouth shut as a choked sob escaped his lips. Maybe it's the early morning wake-up call. Maybe it's the fact that the only person he can really depend on, the only person who he can say he loves in every way possible, hates his guts and won't tell him the truth.

Where did he go? Was he safe? He'd been eating, if he had food poisoning, but what? And where did he get it? And how?

As Eren opens the bathroom door, Jean pulls his covers up over his head, trying to hide the tears that pour down his cheeks. They were pitiful signs of his betrayal, a telltale sign that he knew he was at fault for Eren's disappearance.

Eren pulls back the covers and crawls in beside him, wrapping his arms around the small of Jean's back and cuddling close. "Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep. It's okay."

"No, it's not-"

"It's fine, Jean. Sleep, please. I'm okay."

No, you're not. I know you're not but I'm not doing anything about it what the fuck is wrong with me- "Okay... Goodnight, Eren. I missed you." He mumbles the last part, but knows that those words probably didn't fall upon deaf ears.

Eren is asleep within minutes, and Jean stays up for the rest of the dark hours, unable to stop his mind from picking away at his most vulnerable parts. But Eren isn't a lost cause; it's Jean.

 

* * *

 

"You can't just do that, Jean! Clearly he's into you. I mean, nobody just asks to get a coffee for a second time if they're not. Why not give him a chance?"

"Pfft, yeah, right. Like you can talk about giving people who are into you a chance."

Eren quirks an eyebrow, chewing loudly on a rather hard piece of chocolate, glowering at Jean from his bed, even though he is concentrating more on the magazine in front of him than the conversation. He's wearing his loosest pair of sweatpants, or rather, sweatpants that once fit perfectly and now hang off of his hips. His face is looking fuller now though, not so sunken. "What do you mean?"

Jean frowns, clicking his tongue. "Your runner friend. Levi? You know, the guy who's clearly into you who you won't give a chance."

Eren bites his lower lip. "He's nice and all, but... I don't know. I'd give him a chance if I knew more about him, I guess. Like, Facebook stalk him or something. But I don't even know his last name. And he barely talks to me, we just kind of eat Ymir's Oreos and sit up on the peak. She speaks enough for all of us."

Jean throws his hands up in retaliation, pulling a sweater over his head and carding his fingers through his hair. "Need I say more? I don't know my guy either, and after the way we met I-... I don't think I want to. He probably thinks he can get something out of me cheap just because he stopped that guy from doing- doing whatever it was he was gonna do."

"Yeah, but, what if he isn't? What if this dude genuinely cares about you and wants to see you again because he thinks you're cute or some shit?" Eren offers, mindlessly nibbling in the wrapping in his chocolate as he skims through the next page of the magazine. Jean had brought it back from the corner store after breakfast, seeing as Nanaba still didn't know Eren was here and he planned to keep it that way for a little longer.

But surely the others had started to notice that Jean was leaving his room more often and wasn't as reclusive and standoffish now. Jean sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck, sitting on his bed and leaning up against the wall. "I don't know... I just don't think I can't trust him. You can't-"

" _Can't trust anyone in Trost_ , yeah, we've established that. But look at is this way, Jean." Eren sets his magazine and chocolate bar down, crossing his legs and turning his full attention to the other guy. "Say this guy actually is into you. He's super rich, he's got a huge house, a hot housemaid, and he's fucking _hung_ -"

"Eren-"

"And he's got the worlds sweetest personality. What's wrong with that? What's so wrong about finding love in a city that tries to take it away from you? I think you need to peruse this a little further, scope out the scene, relay the details of everything to me, and then take it from there. It's not often you find someone in Trost with a clear track record. You can't just throw away opportunities at happiness when they're handed to you. That's like a gift from the Universe or something; compensation for all the bullshit we go through."

"How can you, of all people, preach something you don't believe in?" Jean asks, letting his hands slump in his lap as his shoulders relax. "I know you're only saying this because you want me to get out and do something else with my life, but you know that's a two way street."

Eren raises an eyebrow. "What don't I believe in? His personality or the compensation?"

Jean shrugs. "All of it. I don't think you believe there's a chance at happiness out there that gets handed to us... So, why're you trying to get my hopes up?"

"So I did get your hopes up." Eren grins slyly, leaning back against his own wall and resting his hands behind his head. "I dunno, I wanted to sound philosophical and stuff. I have to occupy myself somehow, and you're my greatest form of entertainment."

"You want me to risk my safety and wellbeing for your entertainment, then. While you're sitting here in this room pretending you don't exist."

"Yes, that's exactly it. And possibly you'll even get laid by someone handsome and loving and stop moping around all the time."

"You're a dick sometimes. Why did I ever want you to come back again?"

Eren purses his lips, blinking his eyelashes rapidly. "Because you love me."

And God, Jean can't think of a response to that, because during the past weeks when Eren wasn't there and Jean was on the verge of self-inflicted death without him, there is no way he can say that he doesn't.

- **x** -

Eren returns to work the after Nanaba discovers him. It's almost Jean's fault; almost. But he took the initiative and hid Eren in the bathroom when she burst into their room to take up any laundry that might need washing.

So, Jean takes that near miss as a chance to return to his own world. _Chance_... That word tastes to foreign on his tongue, feels so foreign in his mind. What chances does earning money from giving blowjobs in alleyways give? None, that's what. Jean can't understand why it's so hard to live, what he did to deserve to live like this.

Maybe his birth was enough of a mistake to cause the universe to turn on him, to fuck him over repeatedly until he messed up himself and ended up dead as a result. Perhaps that would even be for the best.

Leaving St Maria's, the cold air billows though Jean's loose coat as he braces the chill alone, heading towards the city centre. Although Christmas feels like a lifetime ago, winter seems to have permanently sunk itself into every surface it could find, chilling even the asphalt of the roads. The sidewalk is coated in a thin sheet of ice, sending scuffed feet into a momentary slide.

Spring rears its head in odd places, but Trost dulls the vibrant colours of daring flowers with smog; a thick cloud surrounding anything with purpose, sending the offender right back where it came from. Sometimes, Jean feels like a spring flower in Trost, attempting to reclaim its parklands from the desolation of winter, but always remaining unsuccessful.

As the stores draw closer, Jean's stomach grumbles painfully. Most of its hunger, the fact that he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning a majority of the problem. But another part of the unfortunate demise of his insides would be the nerves that hit him like a truck. He can see the bar and grill where the man he stood up works; the man who quite possibly saved his life, or at leas saved his dignity.

Could he stand to walk back to that alleyway again? He'd done it before, even after that man had met him. But it wasn't after he'd stood him up, was it...

"You're here again."

 _Fuck_.

Jean nearly jumps out of his skin, but turns around coolly. "H-Hi, yeah..." _Say something, just say it_. "Uh, Marco, right?" _C'mon, apologise or something, tell him to fuck off_. "Listen, about the other night-"

"It's fine." Marco shrugs lightly, extending a hand for Jean to shake. It seems like he forced the action though, as if he really didn't want to be shaking Jean's hand. "How about we talk about it over breakfast? I'll pay."

How devious, Jean thinks, supposing Marco heard his stomach grumbling from anywhere within a five mile radius of him. "I- Yeah, okay. Sure."

Marco smiles. "Great! I guess it'll be best to go where I work, seeing as you might be able to pick up an application form there." His black work shirt clings to his broad chest in a way that has Jean reeling, wondering why he didn't go and see him in the first place.

"Yeah... _Wait_. Application? For what?" Jean stops in his tracks, trying to find an answer in Marco's face before he tells him.

Marco's face flushes. "Well... I was going to offer you a job. That's why I invited you out the other day, because we're hiring, and you're in need of money... Sorry, did I misunderstand your situation? You don't have to accept. But I would still like to share a meal with you."

This guy. There's no way he's possibly real. _It's not often you find someone in Trost with a clear track record..._

"I guess... Both. We can- we can talk, or do both."


	7. Eren, Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real story starts from here on out, folks. And by 'real' story I mean all the juicy parts I wrote this whole fic for. I could have done little single chapter AUs, but this project is by far one of the most important to me. I hope you can all be patient with updates and enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.   
> Stay safe xx

It's the same thing all over again. He can feel the chills of the waiting room rushing through his blood stream, reminding him of the last time he set foot through these doors, inebriated and shaking and _dying_ -

He'd seen the light. Well, maybe not the light, but some kind of light that he desperately clung to, knowing that so long as he could keep looking at it, he wouldn't die. That was a lie. He _did_ die. He was dead for a grand total of fifty-seven seconds, and he can't remember anything between the time the light disappeared from his sight and when it came back into view: only the sickening feeling of his stomach dropping, and his head filling with air, and his throat constricting around all the vomit.

That also happened at rehab. Three times. It was almost the same situation too, besides the fact that he'd only gone to rehab in that state of toxicity because the doctors refused to let him through the hospital doors, even though Jean and Nanaba (on all occasions) were screaming for a nurse or doctor or someone to keep him alive. It's such a pity that the government only allowed a grand total of one chance to not fuck up your health, because if you experience the same thing more than once, you're deemed a lost cause. That's quite possibly why that Daz kid died on the sidewalk when he was fourteen years old because he contracted pneumonia for the second time and the hospital thought he'd been doing drugs.

Eren had saved that kid from an abusive family. He'd also spent that entire night in the kitchen of St Maria's listening to the clock tick by as he waited desperately for someone to come to him and say that Daz had woken up. But they didn't, and the clock ticked by without giving him a single moment to come to terms with what had happened.

Why is the sound of a clock ticking so easy to listen to? Amongst all other noises, that incessant tic-tic-tic seems so much louder, promotes so much foreboding, so much anxiety. It's the one sound your ears are guaranteed to tune into, as some sick reminder of its importance in your life. It's scary. And yet, it's still a comfort: to know that the clock is still ticking, that there's still time.

But all time is relative. Who can, in all honesty, go a single day without remembering how little time they have to do something? Who's to say that those three, four, five minutes are guaranteed? No one. No friend, family member, preacher, or doctor can safely reassure you that you have enough time.

We have time, of course. There's so much of it to waste - but it's just never enough. In another time and place, a clock that couldn't be seen ticked over a number that was ever-changing. But he knew that. He'd always known that.

'You're shivering. Are you cold?'

 _No_.

He wasn't. He was itching for a hit, craving something his mind couldn't even comprehend - his veins were thinking for him.

'You're burning up! You must have a fever.'

_I'm not. I don't._

He did. But it's the weather, right? And everyone in Trost is in some state of sickness all year 'round anyway. Why does it matter? A fevers a fever. It would break eventually. They always do.

'Are you eating right? You've lost a lot of weight since I last saw you.'

_I am. I hadn't noticed. I'm fine._

He wasn't. He had noticed - but they worried unnecessarily. Of course he was fine. Surely if someone isn't fine they'd know, right? It's an internal thing, a common sense thing. If he was worried, he'd do something about it. Wouldn't he?

Probably not. But he could convince himself of that.

But he wasn't really fine-

But he _was_. He's fine. Everything's fine. This whole trip is just a useless waste of healthcare that the government doesn't even want to use. Eren's convinced that his presence in the building is not forthcoming for anything good. In fact, it's just a waste of time - time he could be spending enjoying his life, rather than letting himself waste away.

There are other people out there who really need help. Homeless, crippled, terminally ill. He's just one fucked-up human being in a pocket of thousands who actually need to be helped, who openly seek it yet are turned away. He doesn't seek help, and he doesn't need it - he can help himself just fine.

They - the poor, the disabled, the racially discriminated - however, can't. Why that is exactly, nobody seems to know, but it's the most ridiculous fucking thing he's ever heard. Why should people like Eren - who don't care for or about themselves - be helped, when people who really need help are being turned away? It's all bullshit. Eren snorts at the thought, rolling his eyes as someone passes him by and smiles that same smile everyone like him gets when their stony eyes meet those of people who haven't yet experienced the weight of the world crush them.

He'd tell them all to fuck off if he wasn't too busy wallowing in self pity.

Eren taps his feet impatiently, the clock ticking by as a constant reminder, drowning out all other noise in the bustling waiting room. People come and go, now passing him by without a second thought, without a glance.

Life often does that too, passes by without giving much thought into who it's passing.

What a scary thought to have.

But it's what he wants, of course - to fade into the background and slink back to his piteous domain with his tail firmly between his legs and his tongue firmly between his teeth: to have time itself pass him by graciously until he finally feels as though he's had enough of it.

(As if he hadn't had enough if it years ago.)

"Eren?"

He hates the way his name sounds on the tongues of people who are so far above him he has to block the sun out of view to simply stand in their presence. It wasn't meant to be uttered by people of the upper class - it's not a name that sounds right coming from a person with statues and purpose. It wasn't meant to be uttered by anyone ever since it was first given to him.

 

_'I miss you, Eren. I hate how estranged we've become, even though we share the same name. I wish things could go back to the way they were...'_

_Why?_

_'I know it doesn't feel like it. I know that I- that I don't try as best as I could but... I do love you, son. I wish you would believe me.'_

_And I you, dad. I love you too. I just wish I knew how to show it._

 

Everything just seems to be getting much worse lately. Perhaps the dread in his stomach is unnecessary. Perhaps, in light of everything he's been through, the universe will grant him a break in one aspect of his life. Eren snorts. That's not likely at all. He's read up, he's listened, he's acknowledged. But he hasn't accepted. Never accepted.

It's like feeling a pimple in an odd place. It's one that you can't see, but one that hurts far more than any other you've had. You don't pay it any attention, but you acknowledge its apparent existence until it rears its pale head and can be removed.

"Follow me please."

But some pimples - some problems - can't ever be removed. Not until their root source is removed with them. In this case, the root source of all Eren's problems is, ironically enough, Eren.

How stupid of him to think he'd ever get a break in this lifetime.

- **x** -

"Eren wha- whats that smell?"

Jean held his nose, scrutinising the surroundings with a squint. Everything was so bland, so dark. There's a heavy shadow cast over the dimly lit, musky room. Eren shrugged, lips slightly upturned. "No idea, it's been here since I visited last month though - the past owner said it was like, rat piss, but I think there's a corpse embedded in the walls. I haven't investigated it yet. Wanna help me look?"

Jean snorted. "No thanks."

It's incredible, just how fast time moves. It seems as though it was only yesterday that Eren was dragging Jean off of the street and into St Maria's. Now it's Jean begging Eren not to leave. He should have seen this coming, should have mentioned it offhandedly before jumping head-first into the deep-end. He doesn't even know how to swim properly.

"Should you really be moving out? I mean, can you afford it, in all honesty?" Jean asked, biting his lip as Eren fiddled with the peeling corner of the wall. The paint is cracked and dry, nothing people would bat an eyelid at if they walked in and saw-

It's just the way he'd always imagined it.

Eren shrugged. Of course he can't afford it. But it's for the best. "I'll get by. I mean, the rent here isn't much more than what it is at Maria's. Plus, it's a chance to pull myself together, you know? ...but it's not set in stone. I've only showed interest. I don't even know the landlords name."

Loosing yourself is much easier when you're alone, Jean.

"Maybe you should wait a little more," Jean suggested, weakly. Eren knew this was coming. "I mean, you're still on this side of poverty, and you haven't gone to rehab when you promised me and Nanaba you would. Maybe-"

"Jean." Eren's voice lacked vigor, lacked meaning. It was - it is - hollow, and empty, and tired. He hopes Jean understands, yet at the same time, he hopes its only understanding at skin-depth. "It's not definite. I just wanted you to see the place, to check it out and give me your opinion... So, what do you think? Could I swing it here?"

Jean chuckled, rolling his eyes and observing the so-called lounge space. "It's okay. Filthy, and definitely a safety hazard. But I think you could make it work."

Eren smiled. That's all he needed to hear, all the confirmation he needed - even if it was said regretfully. "Thanks, Jean."

They headed back to St Maria's against the natural chill of Trost. It was supposed to be a nice, tepid day - but the dark clouds that hung overhead dismissed whatever sun had thought it would get through.

Although colder than usual, it seemed as though everyone was prepared for the weather. That's why it was no surprise to Nanaba when she walked into the room to see Jean and Eren huddled beneath layers of blankets on Jean's bed, watching something on the small, cracked screen of Eren's phone.

"Are you two really going to stay huddled up in here all day?" She'd asked, leaning against the doorframe with a quirks brow. She'd been hesitant to speak to the two of them since Eren's return.

"Eren's sick," Jean had said, pressing the back of his hand to Eren's forehead for good measure. It was still burning up, and Eren had been shaking since they'd returned from the apartment complex.

"Should I phone the doctor?"

"He won't go. I've tried."

Eren groaned. "I'm fine, it's just a cold. The weathers changin,' is all."

Jean chuckled dryly. "Trost weather. Changing. Eren, you can't use frequent two-degree jumps as an excuse for whatever the hell is going on in your body."

Nanaba chimed in quickly. "He's right, you know. If you're not feeling any better by tomorrow, I'll be calling the duty nurse to drop by and give you a check over. You were gone for so long, too- who knows what you could have caught out there."

 _Have you ever thought about fucking off and minding your own business? Like, just for once in your life?_ Eren rolls his eyes and grunts, to which Nanaba clicks her tongue and mumbled a 'whatever' as she leaves. _Maybe you could try being there for us all the time, not just when we might be sick enough to get you sick._

But Eren made everyone sick. Not just by being around him when he had an illness, but when they looked at him coming out of an alleyway with cum staining his dirty, fourth-hand clothes. God, he hated himself even more than usual when people see what he does.

"Eren... You really should get her some slack. She's no angel, but-" Jeans speech trails off, as if he remembers something, and Eren quirks an eyebrow.

"Mmhm. Continue that sentence and I'll be convinced she's payed you to think like that." Eren nearly heaves as he lifts himself off of the bed and walks towards the window. "Nanaba is no angel. She's only here for the government benefits - she's said so herself. If I was concerned about my health, I'd go to a doctor-"

"No you wouldn't-"

"But currently, I'm not concerned. I don't have a fever." Lie. "I'm keeping down all my food." Lie. "I'm hydrated." Lie. "And my hygiene is pristine, as usual."

Jean snorted. "I can't comment on the others, but I know you haven't showered in a while. You've got more than a three o'clock shadow there."

Eren grinned. "It's practically peach fuzz. Dark, prickly peach fuzz."

And a fever. It's more-than-peach-fuzz, and a fever, and a constant sickly feeling in the stomach. It's diarrhoea, and night sweats, and fatigue to a whole new level. He's sick. Only a little, though. Who doesn't feel under the weather every now and then, right?

(Who sleeps around most every second night, nearly always unprotected?)

Jean rubbed the back of his neck, clearly nervous. Eren couldn't help but feel a little guilty for that, even as Jean attempted to break the knowing silence between them. "I, uh. I took the job. With Marco."

How did Olympus carry the weight of the world on his shoulder? Surely it was tiring, surely it was painful. What did he gain from all of that struggle? A couple of statues in museums? Maybe even a history class or two? It was for nothing. Yeah, Eren didn't do any classes on him, and he doesn't have any knowledge of what it was for, but it must've gained a lot for such a useless and exhausting task.

Perhaps it's time for Eren, as Olympus, to drop the world and wait out his miserable life in some dark alleyway, doing the only thing he knows how to do.

"Eren?"

When Eren's gaze met Jean's, he's all too aware of the hesitance on Jean's face. He knows he has to tread lightly around Eren- but why? It's not like he can change the way he is.

"If I save up, I'll have enough to rent an apartment, probably. We could, you know, move in together, to save you having to move into that shithole from earlier. N-no offence."

"S-sorry," Eren started, biting his lip and letting his eyes lower to the floor. "That's great news. I'm- I'm really happy for you, Jean."

Jean raised an eyebrow. "No, you're not. And you didn't answer-"

"I am! I am. You're my best friend, I have to be happy for you, it's not like I care if you're out there messing around with some dude who just happened to pick you up off of the street and get you a job-"

"We're not messing around!" Jean shouted, tone nearly as defensive as his stance. "It's just work!"

Eren scoffed. "And sexual harassment is just a lawsuit."

He knew he'd crossed the line. He knows he shouldn't have said that. He should be proud, should be happy, for Jean - but he isn't. He can't be. Not when Jean is becoming so successful and confident in himself and becoming everything Eren wishes to be, while he himself seems to be going backwards in life because he just can't fucking stop-

"So," Jean started. There's less tension in his voice. He's trying. God, he's trying so hard, and all Eren's doing is making it worse. "Did you get to those auditions? I know you were pretty keen to try out." Eren's gut felt as though it plummets to the ground. Guilt rises in his throat - or perhaps that bile.

Jean cares. He's proud. He's trying. He's growing, changing. He's doing something with his life that isn't fucking killing him.

Eren's such an asshole.

"Y-yeah, I did... It was fine, I guess. I probably smelt like shit though, so there's not much chance I'll get in."

Jean chuckled. "Are you kidding? What Hollywood film producer wouldn't want a street-kid to movie star story on their records? They dig that stuff, d-don't they?"

"Yeah, I guess..." Eren's voice trailed off as he picked at the surface of his worn comforter. They do did that stuff, don't they... So maybe, despite his appearance, he actually has a chance?

Who's he kidding. Of course he doesn't have a chance. Not even the strongest will power can change undisputed facts.

He's always been so uselessly motivated. Why does he even bother anymore? It hasn't got him anywhere. In fact, all it's done it get him living in some half-way house for other losers like himself. Maybe he's worse off here than he would be just finding his own way in life. He's still an asshole. He's still got anger management issues. He's still greedy, and envious. He's still influenced. He's still addicted. He's still poor. He's still numb.

Why did he ever think that any of that would change?

 

* * *

 

"It's been a while," the doctor sighed, putting on a fake smile as she taps the desk. It makes something inside of Eren tick with agitation. "How have you been, Eren? Besides everything we've just discussed."

 _How good can I have been if I'm sitting in your office, doctor?_ Eren snorts. "However I was feeling before now doesn't matter." Licking his lips, Eren makes eye contact with the stern doctor and sighs. "Fine. I'm fine, I guess."

"Fine," the doctor repeats, slowly. "I suppose it's safe to assume you were more than thrilled to come in this afternoon."

More than thrilled, huh. That as true, he was more than thrilled: he was furious. He'd kicked. He'd screamed. He'd been dragged in the front door by both Jean, Nanaba and Mina. She looks small, but she's one rough fuck. Clearly, his escapade hadn't gone unnoticed by everyone. Not that anyone possibly could have missed the little scene he made.

"I wasn't exactly thrilled, no." Eren sighs again, sitting back in the chair and running his hands through his hair. "Look, I don't want to small talk so I can walk out of here with some false sense of security in my head. What's the diagnonsense, doc. What am I supposed to do now that all of this is out here in the open, huh? Lab testing? Some superman transformation accident? Enlighten me, please, because I've got no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do."

Sighing, the doctor gives Eren a once over before speaking. "It'll take about a week or so to get your results, but we'll send the bloods off to the lab to see what we can find. I'm sure they'll show more than my speculations." Eren grunts - I wish you'd tell me what those are, exactly - but the doctor continues. "It could be as simple as the flu, or as severe as-... It's really all cards on the table here, if you're willing to accept whatever the tests might show. If you think that remaining ignorant would be better for your mental health, we'll put you on some medication that may or may not fight the bug that's stuffing with your sinuses. That may even help any other underlying problems."

Eren nods; slowly, numbly. "So you're saying you don't think it's anything good."

"I'm simply saying that symptoms such as what you're describing can indicate ailments on either side of the severity-scale. In other words, you could simply be a little under the weather, as most people are at this time of year, or you could expect to seek treatment that will extend your life as long as possible."

"It could be life threatening?"

"Only if it isn't treated. But it may not even need treatment. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"...and there's no way you'll conduct unethical experiments on me to turn me into an undying superhero?"

Both Eren and the doctor know this is his coping mechanism, but when the doctor doesn't respond, Eren's walls begin to crumble. Blank, lost. Numb. He nods slowly, unable to process what exactly it is the doctor is telling him. But instead of questioning it, Eren stands up, and shakes her hand on his way to the door. "Okay."

Eren waves a hesitant goodbye to the receptionists, then makes his way out onto the cold and gloomy street. Someone tells him to 'watch out' as he passes them by, nearly knocking their groceries out of their hands. Eren takes that as enough of a sign to pull his head out of his ass and keep his eyes open, regardless of how he feels.

 _Okay_ , he'd said. Eren mentally kicks himself. How could he be 'okay' after all of that? How can he possibly be okay with the fact that three vials of his blood is being sent off to some lab to tell him that he's basically got a death sentence?

How ironic. Now he knows why Jean used to chide him for staying up late and telling him that he'd 'sleep when he's dead.' Perhaps he'll be taking a nap sooner rather than later.

Or maybe he's overreaching, and he really does just have some sort of flu.

It's not like his feelings matter, anyway. It's not like they'll make a difference to the situation. He's fucked, he knows it. People like him - they don't get a second chance. You get one chance to do the right thing, and if you fuck it up, that's it. You can't go crying to the universe or sobbing to some higher being to make the pain stop or to turn back the clock. Life doesn't work like that. Maybe, once upon a time, he would have believed that everything happened for a justifiable reason. Now, though, the only reason he can think of is that to live isn't to be happy, and to be happy isn't to live.

But the again, the doctor said there's equal chance of everything being fine... Maybe he is just overreacting. Maybe his pessimistic attitude is getting the better of him after all, and all he needs to do is lighten up a little and everything will be fine.

Maybe having a childish outlook on life isn't all that bad. Not for your mental wellbeing, anyway.

If that's the case, then: "How should I celebrate?" Eren says, aloud. Immediately, he claps two clammy hands over his mouth and crosses at the lights with heavy footsteps. But he can't help the giggle that escapes him, even when people look at him with amused expressions.

Just thinking of pretending everything is okay makes him giddy, makes him feel like a child - makes him feel like he's high. High on life.

Wow. When was the last time he was high on something that wasn't being injected or smoked into his system? He can't remember, but that doesn't matter when he's approaching St Maria's with the feeling that he is definitely going to share with Jean.

But when he makes it up to their room, Jean isn't there. What is there is a hastily scribbled note and a single chocolate bar. Eren scrutinises the packaging before tearing it open and popping a square into his mouth. Perhaps this day is a good day.

His eyes fall to the letter, undoubtably Jean's handwriting, and he scans it briefly: Eren... Good luck... First shift... Working... More than welcome... Nanaba... Late tonight... Chocolate... Come by... Marco...-

 _Marco_.

Suddenly, nothing else in that letter seems relevant. Eren doesn't give himself time to chew the second square of chocolate in his mouth before he's already pulling his winter coat over his body and slamming his bedroom door shut behind him. Nanaba passes him on the stairs, shouting something about trudging snow through the entrance hall, but Eren's ears are too full of hot blood to listen to her.

Jeans working his first ever shift with Marco. They're at a shady bar, in a shady part of town, with an even shadier past. How could he be so stupid as to invite Eren to visit him at work? Clearly he wants a bar fight to happen. But Eren won't need alcohol in his system to give Marco a broken nose.

Maybe the universe wants him to, because every walk signal seems to turn green upon his arrival, and people move out of his way as he rushes by them. He doesn't even run into any regular clients. Regardless of the hissy fit he'd thrown before, he has to admit that today is a good day. Even if it's only good for the circumstances. But still - perhaps the universe is beginning the stages of apology?

It doesn't take long for Eren to leg it all the way to the Bar and Grill, running through seemingly obvious scenarios that Jean had seriously overlooked.

- **x** -

"Eren? You look rough."

Eren huffs, leaning against the bar with fire in his exhausted eyes. "Thanks for letting me know earlier, asshole. I told you not to apply without letting me know first, let alone take the fucking job and start your first shift!"

Jean chuckles sheepishly. "If I told you, you would have somehow convinced me not to."

Eren rolls his eyes. "Well, clearly if you knew that much then you'd know this is a bad idea."

Jean takes a glass from the rack above Eren's head, and pours him a soda. "Thanks for coming by. It's been getting slower the longer the day goes on. Apparently it'll pick up again around dinner time though-"

"Dinner time?" Eren takes the glass from Jean's hand and sets it down immediately. "You're working that late?"

"I started at nine, and they didn't give me a finish time. I just assumed I'll be finishing when the place closes at ten."

"You know that's slave labour, right. Isn't it supposed to be nine to five?"

As Jean goes to answer, he rounds the corner with a large, golden retriever smile plastered on his stupid fucking face. As Marco meets Eren's heated gaze, he opens his arms as a welcome. "You're Eren's friend! Eren, right? I've heard a lot about you."

Eren's facial expression changes, though only slightly. "You have? Wait- how do you know who I am, just from a bunch of stories anyway?"

Marco chuckles. "Jean is a very good story teller. I could imagine everything from the colour of the sky to the cow lick where your hair parts." Eren splutters, reaching up to let down said cow lick and shoot Jean a menacing glare. "It's nice of you to drop by. Are you eating in?"

Jean's eyes say: _please don't say it, please don't say it._ Eren smirks before he responds. "I prefer eating out - it's super thrilling, for _all_ parties involved. But I'll see if there's anything cheap."

Jean groans, running his hands down his reddening face in embarrassment, but Marco simply laughs and pets his back. "You're a real character, Eren. I'll see if I can make up a sandwich for you."

With that, Marco leaves, and Jean turns to Eren with an eyebrow raised. He appears victorious, but Eren doesn't buy it. "So what. He's funny, charming, and really hot. That doesn't mean he's not connected to some shady drug mule business or something... I'd still be careful."

Jean leans over the counter and places his hands on Eren's. He's visibly uncomfortable doing so though. "I trust him. It's not too often you get kind people in Trost - I have to go by what I know."

Eren snorts, pulling his hands away. "What kind people do you know who would do this much for you, some stranger?"

"You."

Eren goes quiet, as Marco comes back with a freshly made grilled cheese. He says he hopes Eren enjoys it, that he's going on break, and that the two of them should join him in the break room upstairs. Jean votes to say no, to stay downstairs and 'keep an eye on things' - which Eren knows means 'people watch and sketch.' Eren suggests celebratory drinks.

What he's celebrating, neither Jean nor Marco are aware of, but Eren claims its for Jean's sake. "You got a job, and Marco got one hell of a coworker. What else could we be celebrating?"

The three of them make their way upstairs to the 'break room,' just past the large dance floor and stage.

Jean clears his throat and taps Marco on the shoulder, as Eren looks around in awe at the state of their strip room. "What is this place?"

Marco chuckles. "Oh, this is the bar par of the name. 'Bar and Grill'? We work in the grill part, almost everyone else works up here. We do...shows, and things. It's pretty entertaining, and the girls are all great at what they do."

" _Girls_ , huh." Eren runs his hand over a polished pole before re-joining Jean and Marco at the door of the break room. "Do only girls perform?"

"Well," Marco unlocks the door and let's the two enter first, "we do have a few male dancers. It's like Magic Mike up here on Wednesdays, I swear, but we hold LGBTQ+ events during pride months, and throughout odd times during the year. That's always a good time, even if it's not really your thing."

Eren snorts, mumbling under his breath: "Not really my thing..."

"So," Marco starts. "I'm clocking off about now. Jean, are you okay with clocking off too? You don't have to, but I don't really like leaving newbies with the night staff on their first shift."

Jean swallows. "Yeah, sure. Uh- so, what do we do then?"

Marco smirks, and pulls out a few cans of generic alcohol. "Well, as Eren said, we can celebrate. To your job! And my chance to do less work around the place!"

Jean and Eren grin at each other, before reaching for their own cans and cheering for their own successes. Eren drinks to Jean's success first and foremost, but internally to the possibility that things are getting better. Not just for him, but for Jean too. And for Nanaba, now that Jean can pay her in full.

As the afternoon goes on, the cans pile up in the rubbish bin, and the three of them find out just how much alcohol is too much. That would be when Jean pukes on his own lap and Eren attempts to seduce Marco with a homoerotic strip-tease. Jean's wiping off vomit from his chin when he lifts his head and sees Marco laughing his ass off and Eren running his hand over Marco's crotch.

Jean leaps from his seat immediately, a little more sober, and tells Marco he should get Eren home before he does something embarrassing. Eren has to be pried from Marco's torso once they leave the Bar and Grill, the only way to get Ewen out of the place to have Marco bring him down.

Once out on the street, the cold air hitting their faces, Eren calms down. But only a little. He kisses Marco on the cheek, then Jean, and leans all of his body weight on Jean as they walk back to St Maria's.

Jean gives Marco a sheepish wave as they turn the corner, but becomes focused on Eren once again when he slurs: "Fuck, he's hawt."

Jean pets his shoulder, bringing him closer to his body. Eren feels warm. "Why'd you get shitfaced, huh? Were you really celebrating my new job, or was something else?"

Having Eren drunk has its down sides, but one upside is his honesty. While Jean tries to be honest at all times - unless it's about his feelings - Eren is only completely honest when he's drunk. Maybe Jean shouldn't be asking such a personal question.

Eren hums. "Nah, 's for you. An' I'm clean. An' the doc said I'm all g'd."

"You are?" Jean sighs, relived. "Thank god... Eren, why didn't you tell me earlier? We could have gone home and celebrated without you getting drunk. You're not clean anymore, now, you know that."

Eren shrugs. "You like that piece of ass. I'm not gonna come between that."

A sober statement. Jean feels Eren's weight part from him as they reach the St Maria steps. Eren smiles at Jean. "I still don't trust him too much, but like, if you're gonna be this happy and talkative after spending time with him, then I want you to be with him all the time."

Jean doesn't know what to say, and Eren doesn't want to stay in case he manages to conjure up the words that would undoubtably break Eren's heart. "I'm goin' to bed now. Night, Jean."

 

* * *

 

Headache, blurry eyes. Eren wakes up at the crack of dawn to his stomach churning and his head pounding. He barely makes it to the bathroom, but when he does, he's glad he can safely say that this morning sickness is more alcohol and less illness.

Probably.

Jean's completely asleep when Eren renters the bedroom, so he doesn't seek comfort in him. Instead, Eren's more attracted to the light that glows from his secondhand touch screen phone. It used to be Nanaba's, but she needed to know that Eren had a means of contacting her or St Maria's or the police when he was out and about.

But there isn't a message from Nanaba this time: it's from an unknown number.

 **From** : **xxxx xxx xxx  
** 5:01am  
Glad to have met you Eren. I hope you feel better soon.  
\- Marco (Bar and Grill)

Eren's stomach coils around itself as he glances over at Jean's sleeping figure, peacefully unaware that Marco had somehow obtained Eren's phone number.

What would he say? Would he be upset? Jean doesn't even have a phone, does he? Maybe he does. But surely Marco would have expressed some form of worry for Jean if he really cared about him. Why would he send something like that to Eren and not Jean?

No, no. He had to be overthinking this. Marco likes Jean, even if just in a colleague to colleague kind of way. Right? He had to. He fucking had to. Jean was happy around him.

Maybe he could be happy with Marco only as his friend? But why would Eren worry about that? It's not like he cares for Marco. He's not trustworthy. Jean's better off not ever getting close to this guy. There's just something off about him.

_You can't trust anyone in Trost._


	8. Marco, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you really regret something if it's to do with someone like that?

Substance isn't endless. There comes a time when you have to get another script filled out; have to go to another doctors appointment; have to visit your local dealer again. You can't keep using and using and think that it'll all still be there whenever you need it again.

If there's anyone in a city of substance that knows just how finite it is, that person is Eren Jaeger.

Materials aren't endless, either. Clothes become worn-out, mattresses loose their spring, bulbs go out before their guaranteed time. As natural as the action of buying is, replacing comes just as easy. You go out, get what you need, and your simplistic life no longer feels as though it's missing something vital.

If there's anyone in a city lacking quality materials that knows just how finite they are, that person is Armin Arlert.

But love? Love is different. Against all odds, love is - in most cases - endless. It resonates from even the smallest creature, and manages to love until it can't physically carry on living; and in turn, loving. But some people don't know how to love. They love their possessions, of course: their big house, their fancy car, the earnings given to them by their employees. But people? That's a completely different story.

But if there's one person in a loveless city that knows the endlessness of love, it's Marco Bodt. Maybe he doesn't know love personally, but he's seen it come and go too many times not to know what love is. He knows both material and physical love. He knows the ups and downs, the twists and turns. He knows the disappointment and the grief. But he also knows the happiness and joy. And sitting beside Jean on the leather couch in the corner of the Bar and Grill, talking about nothing at all yet everything at once, he knows he's found endless love.

It's such a pity he would never be granted the opportunity to act on it.

"So," Jean laughs, "he showed me around and there were cockroaches everywhere when we opened the door. Like, a plague amount of roaches. I wasn't laughing then, because it smelt so bad, but it's kind of funny now."

Marco smiles. "Has he moved in there now?"

Jean shakes his head, still smiling slightly. "No, he can't afford it. Besides, I don't think he could handle living on his own. He's not... he's not really as well as he says he is. But we all give him the benefit of the doubt. It's better than driving him out onto the streets."

He speaks a lot more when he's with me, Marco can't help but think. He always looks so sad and lonely when he's alone, but when he's with other people, he's like a new person.

"Fair enough," Marco hums, tapping his fingers on the table. "And what about you? You have told me a lot about Eren. I want to hear about you."

"O-oh. I, um. I'm not that interesting. I just work and go babysit him... that's about all there is to it." Jean bites his lip, looking sheepish, before adding: "I can play the piano."

Marco beams. "Well, that's interesting! Now we are getting somewhere. So, when? And what can you play?"

Jean blushes. "I only remember a few tunes from when I was little. I haven't played in so long, I've probably forgotten everything... but, still. I used to play piano. W-what about you?"

"Lots of stuff." Marco shrugs with a smile. "I'll try anything."

Jean raises an eyebrow. "Anything, huh?"

Marco nods. "I've been a pastry chef, an artist, a librarian, a pool cleaner, and an actor - just to name a few. There's been plenty in-between, just odd jobs here and there, but they are the ones that I enjoyed the most."

"Wow." Jean gapes a little, trying to find the words to say as Marco waits patiently. He enjoys this. He likes knowing that Jean knows he's willing to wait for anything. "Ho old are you, Marco?"

Marco smiles. "Twenty three."

Jean can't help the way his jaw drops, and Marco can't help but chuckle at his gorgeous, cute, beautiful face. "That's crazy! You've done all of that and you're only twenty three?"

"I have moved countries!" Marco laughs, inching a little closer. Many times, he wishes to say. "I cook the food here, so that's why I said chef. And I used to paint back in Italy. Nothing fancy, just street drawings and small portraits."

He'd paint pictures of large, sparkling cities and endless fields of green. He'd open his imagination and paint stars falling from the sky; families; the boats on the horizon with their colourful masts. His favourite had to be the Tuscan landscape. That was his favourite place to live. Even still, he could paint it by memory, from the houses to every last window and crack in the pavement.

"You know," Jean starts, after a little while of blank staring. "You're really different from what I thought you'd be."

Marco raises a nervous eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Just- I don't know. You're just different. It's hard to trust people, you know? And I didn't want to trust you, but... I think I can. I do, I mean."

Marco smiles, the bittersweetness of it going unnoticed by Jean. "I'm glad. But I'd hate for you to become less cautious just because of me. T-that's not to make you more cautious, obviously! It's just to let you know that it's okay to not trust people, but there are some you can trust, like-" Marco sighs and begins to laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Now I sound like a madman. But, you get the idea."

Jean smiles. "I do... thank you, Marco."

After a few moments, Marco bites his lip and just has to ask the question, trying to suppress the guilt in his stomach as the words formulate. "Why didn't you think you could trust me?"

Of course, he already had a reason in his mind. Jean knew who he was. He knows who he works for, where he's been, the names he's had, and the cities he's corrupted.

Jean pales slightly. "... it's kind of hard to say. I just thought you were someone who would, maybe, take advantage of me."

"Really? Do I actually look like that?"

"No! No, no, not at all! It's just- it's just me. I'm o-overly cautious, and suspicious of everyone. I make firsthand judgements without getting to know people." Jean goes quiet, while Marco's heart rate starts to slow down again. "If it makes you feel any better, I um. I'm glad I got to know you... without you, I wouldn't have this job. I owe a lot to you, Marco. So, thanks."

I owe a lot to you, Marco. _What could he possibly mean by that?_ He wonders. Jean doesn't owe him anything. He only offered him a job because there was one on offer. He only got him away from Franz because that what anyone would have done. Right?

Marco bites his lip, glancing around the room to make sure they're in privacy, before leaning forward and whispering: "You won't believe me, but having you around has made my life very pleasant."

Jean swallows, his eyes scanning Marco's face at such close proximity. Marco doesn't miss the way his eyes stop at his lips, but he pulls away before Jean can do anything. Three weeks, he has to remind himself. They've only worked together for three weeks. If anything happened to Jean because of Marco, he'd- what would he do?

Sighing, Jean laughs nervously and rubs at the back of his neck, leaning back into the chair. He'd picked up the habit then, Marco realises. "W-well, I should get going. Eren's probably wanting lunch, and I promised I'd bring something from here."

"Anything he wants." Marco smiles. "It's on the house."

"Are you sure? If he knew that he'd eat you out of business." Jean's laugh is awkward, but it's genuine. It's a sound Marco could get used to very quickly, if he hasn't already.

Marco makes up two take-away burgers and walks Jean to the crossing at the end of the street, ever-so-slightly brushing his hand against Jean's as they walk. He chides himself for teasing the two of them, but he can't help it. It's about as close they'll ever get, he has to remember that.

"How late are you working tonight?" Jean asks, waiting for the lights to change.

"Until nine at the bar," Marco says. But until three a.m upstairs... if only he could tell Jean that. Perhaps it was a pride thing that stopped him, something that itched inside but begged to be hidden, just in case something was revealed about him that he didn't want the world to know. That he didn't want Jean to know.

Jean nods, just as the walk signal appears. "O-okay, well. I'll see you next shift. Take care, Marco."

Marco smiles, placing his hand briefly on Jean's shoulder. "You too, Jean. Please be safe on your way home."

He misses Jean's blush, already walking back to work, but nothing could hide the butterflies in his stomach telling him that he needs to do something or he needs to stop.

But he's never been one for making good on-the-spot decisions.

Marco's fast-paced strides slow when a familiar voice calls out 'Marco!' from afar, and he turns to see Jean back on his side of the road. His face is flushed, and his hands are shaky, but he meets Marco halfway to each other nonetheless.

"Did you just cross in front of traffic?" Marco asks, placing his hands on either side of Jean's arms on instinct. He looks to frightened. "Are you okay?"

Jean bits his lip and finally meets Marco's eyes. "I'm fine, I just... do you, uh. Do you want to... maybe you'd like to meet up sometime. Outside of work. Maybe see a movie or something. Or s-something."

Marco's lips curve into a humble smile, and he can't help but laugh as he pulls Jean into a comforting hug and rest his chin on the blonde's head. "I'd love to, Jean. You don't have to be so nervous."

 _But you have every right to be_ , Marco thinks. _I would be._

 

* * *

 

Long legs wrap around the polished pole effortlessly, as does the lean body they're attached to. People in their seats cheer and whistle, some clapping along to the music and others so enthralled by the erotic, fluid movements that they can hardly think. At least not with the head attached to their necks.

'Lil' Red' grasps the pole and swings her body around in one motion, maintaining eye-contact with one of her fellow workers serving alcohol at the bar. It's so much easier than looking at the horny men, willing to throw away their life savings or their marriage just to get a closer look at her. She'd much rather playfully, meaninglessly dance for the girl at the bar than these sick, perverted people.

After all, this isn't only a dance bar. If any one of these people wanted a favour, all they had to do was name the right price.

She moves swiftly, having long ago mastered the art of the pole. Lil Red keeps in time to the tracks and performs movements and ministrations both on stage and on the pole alone; it's all more than enough to attract the eyes of many, bringing in more business than usual when she's advertised in skimpy tights and neon outside the building's back-alley entrance. Only a handful of night customers know that they're above the Bar and Grill. Others would never find out.

Long, slender fingers make their way up her thighs, stopping short of her dark lacy panties. She opens her mouth slightly to insinuate a moan, then grinds her way down the silver length and all the way back up. Swinging her hips, one hand holds the pole behind her for balance, the other running over her stomach in a seductive build up to the finale.

Someone seems to moan below, and she briefly sees one of the closer occupants touching himself beneath the table, making eye-contact with her when she looks over; a slimy smirk crosses his lips, and she grimaces.

It's _disgusting_ , she thinks, slut dropping against the pole one last time on the beat of the music before strutting forward and winking, then quickly making her exit.

Why should she have to do this just to make ends meat? It's not like she's qualified for anything else, but she certainly doesn't deserve to be ogled at like some discount expense.

"Lil Red, you did well tonight!" Gunther smiles, petting her on the shoulder as he walks past. "Good to see you at your full potential again. I'm proud."

She smiles, meekly, but it's lack of enthusiasm goes unnoticed. "Thanks, Gunther." She takes out her make-up wipes and begins to wipe her face, careful around her eyes and vigorous around her cheeks.

She sighs, raking her hands down her face; she lifts her gaze to meet the very same reflecting back at her. It's awful, having to doll herself up like this every second to third day, just to appease the sickeningly large audience of married men. But what more can she do? No other place would hire someone like her. Someone who has no control over their life; no control of who they are, what they believe in, not even what they have for breakfast.

Two knocks at the door startle her, and she quickly regains her composure and resumes removing her make-up. "Come in," She says, voice slightly shaken. Marco smiles as he meets her gaze through the mirror, and she turns as she recognises him.

"Marco. I didn't know you were still here."

He chuckles slightly, shutting the door behind him and walking over to pull up a chair beside her. "I wasn't supposed to be, I was only told this morning I'd be working."

"I guess Tino changed everyone's plans tonight," She says, sighing. "Even Isabel's here waitressing. I've already had to get Erd out there twice tonight to stop the pervs from trying to get some from her."

Marco sighs. "Really? That's awful... It's not her fault she has a nice butt." He reaches over to grab a remover wipe from her bag, then swivels her chair and sets her hands in her lap. "I really do hate this place sometimes." Marco starts to remove her make-up for her, careful of the tears in her eyes, and she smiles.

"Only sometimes?"

"All the time."

Mikasa hums. "So do I. But you always seem to make it a little more bearable," She says, reaching out to pet his cheek.

Marco bites his lip. "Mikasa... are you free tonight?"

She rolls her eyes playfully, taking Marco's hands from her face and placing them in her own. "You used my real name. I have to be, don't I?"

Cheekily, Marco smiles, and a silent agreement between them is made. It's the same as every time Marco uses her real name after she's finished working. He'll return to the upstairs bar, load the dishwasher, wipe down the bar and meet Mikasa in the alleyway outside. From there, they'll take Marco's bike back to Mikasa's apartment and drink together. Most likely, they'll end up having sex, but that's never a guaranteed affair.

Mikasa will wake up alone, though. Marco will wake up feeling guilty. It's their routine; lather, rinse, repeat. Except this time, it's not. Because now there's Jean, and Mikasa doesn't know about Jean, but Marco does. And he wants to know a lot more. Who better to ask than the sister of Jean's childhood friend, Eren Jaeger?

Marco leaves the room to load the dishwasher in the top bar. He can hear her start to sob as soon as he's left the room, but not to bring himself to comfort her at the moment.

He could, but he doesn't. He never does. If he did, he'd feel guilty, because it's his fault she feels this way. He got her this job, in turn getting her off of the streets. But at what cost? Her dignity? Her freedom? Whatever it is, she'd never get it back until she could stand on her own two feet without relying on something. And she would. He'd make sure of it.

Outside, someone screamed painfully, and Marco fights the urge to go out and take care of whatever's happening, because Tino makes eye-contact with him from his VIP booth.

 _LA... the city of angels, huh_. Marco clenches his fists. _What a joke. There are no angels here. Only Devils and broken people._

- **x** -

"No, I haven't seen him for years."

Mikasa clenches the neck of a vintage bottle of wine a little tighter, staring off at the far wall of her apartment. "We were only young when it happened. I was seven, so Eren had to be about five or six. Mom went crazy, throwing things and threatening to call the police of dad didn't get out of the house... he didn't do anything wrong. Mom had been off her meds for a while, I later found out, but Eren got the brunt of it. Once the storm passed and mom was back on her meds, and Eren was released from hospital, he was kicked out of the home."

"Mom thought he'd cursed us. They'd adopted me after they had him, since dad had a vasectomy, thinking it would be better for Eren to have someone else around. But I was older than him, more mature. It just didn't work out the way they wanted it I guess... " Mikasa takes a long swig. "I tried to keep him back, but he couldn't even stand to look at me. He left, and I never saw him again. God, he was so young. I completely blame the both of them for what's happened to him. Whatever has happened to him..."

Marco pulls Mikasa closer, rubbing small circles into the bare skin of her shoulder. "I didn't know it was as bad as that... I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Mikasa snorts. "Don't be sorry for me. I fucked myself over first. If I'd just kept to myself about my sexual and romantic preferences then I'd probably be at some big-wig university up north right now, dining with the vegans and the girls who all got lambo's for their birthdays... and Eren- I guess he turned out the way he did because he was forced into it. I mean, who the hell kicks their six year old kid out of home because of some mentality-induced frenzy?"

"That's true. Do you see your mother often?"

"Hell no. I haven't seen her since I left. Sometimes I talk to dad on the phone. He doesn't know what I do, he thinks I work at an office all day, and that's why I can't talk for long... hey, Marco?"

Marco hums. "Yeah?"

Mikasa sighs. "Promise me you'll look after him, okay? If you ever see Eren, can you... I mean. Maybe- maybe even, if he wanted to, you could tell him where to find me. I haven't seen him in so long."

"I promise... but now, do you mind if I ask you something else?"

"May as well. We've come this far, and we haven't even fucked yet. Better to get it all off our chests first, huh."

Marco laughs, pressing a rough kiss to Mikasa's forehead. "In that case, do you know anything about a Jean Kirschtein?"

Mikasa thinks for a moment, tapping her fake nails on the neck of the emptying wine bottle. "I've heard of him, but I can't say I know who he is. I know that Franz guy who used to work in the bar mentioned something about a 'boy toy' called John. Maybe he messed up the pronunciation?"

That statement makes Marco's stomach lurch. Franz... he'd been the one who tried to get Jean to sleep with him that night in the alleyway. He was the one Marco took care of without a second thought, someone who didn't have to die but probably, perhaps, deserved to.

"I see..." Marco's voice trails off, as does his mind. Mikasa rests her head on Marco's shoulder and sighs, revealing in the warmth and comfort he provides. "Anything else? Perhaps to do with Eren?"

She raises an eyebrow sceptically at Marco. "This is all sounding awfully suspicious for someone who's just trying to get to know a guy, Marco."

"I know, I know. I just... okay, I don't know, but I need to know these things. They're important if I'm going to get to know the guy."

"... sure. I'll believe you. I don't know much about him, but before Eren completely stopped communicating with me, he sent two letters about where he was staying and who he was with. One of them mentioned a Gene who he'd started treating like a little brother, but the last I heard about that guy was that he's gone off the rails. Then Eren stopped writing." Marco bites his lip, knowing what he wants to ask but not having the stomach to ask it. Mikasa beats him to the punch. "You want to see the letter, don't you."

Rolling his eyes playfully, Marco smiles. "You know me too well, Mikasa."

She hums. "We've worked together for five years, and we've slept together for two. I think it'd be pretty hard not to know someone at least a little by this point. Don't you?"

He can't help but agree with her.

"I'll see what I can dig up," Mikasa continues, tapping her toes to the background music they'd left on. "I'm sure there'll be some mention of your lover-boy that might be of interest to you."

Marco snorts. "He's not my 'lover-boy, I'm just curious about him, that's all."

"Like you were curious about Bertholdt? And me?"

"Mmhm. Yes, exactly like that. Because that's the point I'm trying to make here, that I'm an absolute sucker for assholes."

Mikasa scoffs and feigns horror, slapping Marco lightly on the shoulder before she laughs loudly and finished with a sigh. "You're the asshole, Mr Bodt. I could be lounging around in my pyjamas in front of the TV with a tub of ice-cream all to myself, instead of sitting next to you with my bra still on my body."

Marco hums. "Well, you could always take it off, now that we've stopped talking."

- **x** -

If only the morning brought with it some sense of comfort. No matter where he wakes up, Marco can never feel completely at rest. Even if he slept the right amount of hours in the first place, he always feels as though he hasn't slept in months. Which is partially true.

But this makes it even more so the truth, what with Mikasa already having left her own apartment and a lukewarm breakfast lying beside his head with a note that reads: 'thanks for a great night, sorry I had to leave but I hope the breakfast makes up for it xx P.S. you snored so much fyi and I think there are bruises on your back now. P.P.S. now you know how I feel ;)'

He can't help but snort at that. How domestic... he doesn't deserve any of Mikasa's kindness. Even if they've slept together, and eaten together, and lived together for the short amount of time that they did. He doesn't deserve her, or anyone's, kindness. Not when he has to do what he has to do.

Mikasa's note is far more welcomed than the text message waiting for him in his inbox from Ymir.

 **From: Ymir  
7:34am**  
Tino wants us at fifty-seventh street at 9am. We have to take care of Daz.

 _Daz_... Marco's stomach lurches. Tino would really have them take care of the very same Daz that nursed him back to health for a cheap price? The same Daz who sold his life's work to feed and clothe his children?

Of course he would. That's just the man Tino is. A businessman, he once dared to call himself. A _father_ , Marco once would have seen him as.

 **To: Ymir  
7:37am**  
'Course he does. I'll be there at 8:45.

Mikasa's breakfast no longer seems appealing.

Time seems to pass far too quickly, and before he knows it, Marco is standing beside Ymir. They look over a cowering, pathetic excuse for a man, threatening him with their stance and physique alone.

"You know this is how it has to be." Marco's words ring out through the baron streets, and the man before them scrambles to the shop window, cowering for his life; a silent plead.

If only Marco was allowed to give in. He would. If he had it his way, this guy wouldn't have to pay back the money, and they wouldn't be pointing guns at his head. If only their threats were empty.

"Well? Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Ymir presses, her gun cocked and pointed between the man's eyes. "You tried to escape payments made to Tino Petruzzali on the seventeenth of this month. Is that correct?"

He shivers, mucus dripping down his face. Ymir grimaces, and as Marco steps forward, the man lets out a small shriek and lifts his hands in defence. "O-okay! Y-yes, I did, b-but I was going to pay it I swear-"

 _He's so scared._ Marco sighs nasally. "You were going to... is that really what you wanted to say to us, Daz? You know what we're here for, don't you?"

Daz's bottom lip quivers. Both Ymir and Marco know that he has given up the argument. "I w-was going to... I a-am going to, if you'd just give me a c-chance. Please! I beg you! Have mercy, I have children to feed!"

Ymir chuckles lowly, lowering her gun, as Marco steps closer and stands tall over the poor excuse for a man. "You're begging for mercy from the wrong people. Don't you know? We're responsible for more than half the murders in Trost. You really thinking begging for your life is going to give us a change of heart? That you, a lying, stealing, bastard of a drug mule, are going to lead us down some faulty path of righteousness?"

Marco adjusts his jaw, a deceitful smile etching itself on his face as he continues. "We're in the same boat, Daz. We owe something to Tino. Surely you know how debts are payed off, don't you? We're paying our debt against our better judgement, and you're about to pay yours. With your life."

The shot is fast and accurate, and as the bullet fires directly between Daz's eyes, blood flecking from the wound on impact, Ymir bites back tears. "S-shit..."

Marco takes his fingers out of his ears, putting an arm around Ymir to divert her eyes away from the scene, but not until he's made eye-contact with the security camera patrolling the streets. Marco bares his teeth: I hope you enjoyed the show, you sick bastard.

"C'mon, let's go. I've sent Tino a message, they're coming to collect the body."

Ymir shakes in his arms, her finger still on the trigger with an iron grip. It's almost importable for Marco to detach, but he manages as they exit the building from the fire escape.

"I hate myself everyday for what we do," Ymir says, dropping the gun and wrapping her arms around Marco with uncharacteristic need. "I can't believe we have to do this just to save our own lives. I'd rather be dead myself."

Marco's eyes widen, his arms wrapping tighter around his waist. He waits until they're out of the cameras line of sight before speaking. "Don't say that, Ymir. Don't you ever say that. We're doing what we have to in order to survive, it's all we know. That doesn't excuse it, but I know that you love Historia more than anything. Could you stand to never see her face again?"

Ymir sobs into his shirt, shaking her head. "God, no. She's the only person that keeps me sane, besides you."

"Just continue what we're doing for now. I think... I think I have a plan to get us away from this, but I'm not sure when I can start working on it."

"A plan? What kind of plan?"

Marco's heart rate increases as sirens draw nearer, and they head to his motorbike parked two blocks away. "Just a plan. Something that could get us out of here without giving any knowledge of us leaving."

Ymir sniffs. "You think you can get us out of here and leave no traces behind?"

"Yeah, I do. But... I'll talk to you about it later. Let's just get home before were caught hanging around out here. I don't think the guys want to pay anymore bail for us."

Ymir is quit in their ride home, and when they arrive back at their apartment. She's silent through dinner, and until she goes to bed, only having spoken to call Historia and say goodnight to Marco.

What kind of lives were they living? None that should even exist. Living in a western world, jobs like their shouldn't exist. The mafia shouldn't have this much control of people, especially people who are supposedly family.

Marco lies awake listening to the sounds of Reiner down the hall, clearly having another breakdown. But then another voice joins in the chorus of shouting, and something smashes.

 _Bertholdt_...

"Marco? Are you going to check on him?" Ymir asks, her head peaking through the doorframe, eyes red and tired. "Bertholdt's back from his trip."

Marco's stomach twists painfully. "I can hear... I'm not sure it'd do any good for me to go down there. I might do something I regret."

"But would you really regret it if you're doing it to someone like that?"

_Of course not._

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I'd like to note that the attributes of each character in this story are in fact based off of/inspired by people I know in real life, and aspects of myself. That being said, apologies if the characterisation is a little off from their canon/fanon selves.
> 
> Secondly, I'd like to say that for a jeanmarco fic, this doesn't exactly follow the tropes hahah... Um, it's kinda painful, just a warning. No matter who your favourite character is, chances are, they're going to suffer somewhere on a scale between 3-10.
> 
> Thirdly, this fic touches on real issues and aspects of relationships (platonic or otherwise) that aren't always discussed, or maybe even swept beneath the rug a little. It's feelings of guilt, disgust, anger; love, respect, generosity; jealousy, loathing, pity. Just a huge cocktail of emotion, I guess.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! You're all such wonderful people, and I can't escape that giddy feeling that hits me when I think about people actually reading my stuff. It's such a lovely warmth.  
> And to those who I know irl, can you guess who I modelled after you? ;)
> 
> End Notes x2: loosely inspired by the musical RENT, the song 'City of Angels' by 30 Seconds to Mars, and people in my life that just haven't had a fair go. No comparisons to any inspiration listen, I just can't shake the feelings those works of art fill me with, and I hoped to feel it on a more personal level.


End file.
